


It's Harder to Need It but so Easily Wanted

by zuotian



Category: South Park
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Artists, Deconstruction of Fandom Tropes, Divorce, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied Mpreg, Light Whump, M/M, Marriage, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Metafiction, Pillow Talk, Postmodernism Sucks, Professional Art, Relationship Negotiation, Sex, Shut Up and Bone Already, Switching, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22038226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuotian/pseuds/zuotian
Summary: Kenny doubted hormone-addled confessions were the greatest impetus to stitching their marriage back together—but who knew if they’d get another chance.Prequel toBig Poppa.
Relationships: Eric Cartman/Kenny McCormick, Kenny McCormick/Original Female Character(s), Kyle Broflovski/Leopold "Butters" Stotch, Stan Marsh/Wendy Testaburger
Comments: 26
Kudos: 50





	It's Harder to Need It but so Easily Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> i've had this in my back pocket for awhile. i've always wanted to write some ABO stuff because i think it's all so fucking ridiculous and cringey. so here's my spin on it. naturally i had to construct a convoluted backstory to keep it interesting and ended up with this 20k monstrosity. artist kenny is my permanent headcanon now. also there is a lot of talking. sex kind of takes a back seat just so you know where my priorities are. but the rating is deserved. 
> 
> title from pretty machines by parquet courts
> 
> Ah, moonlight  
> It's hard to believe it  
> And it's harder to need it  
> But so easily wanted
> 
> Pretty machines  
> Expensive magazines  
> I've been tricked into buying quite a number of things  
> Yeah, bullshit and dreams  
> Urban ease, it means I always leave taunted  
> And you think you're a modern person  
> You think that you can ignore  
> Silent isolation, my emancipations  
> In the same place you get yours

ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FANFICTION—EVEN THOSE BASED ON A REAL SHOW—ARE ENTIRELY GRATUITOUS. ALL CANONICAL DIALOGUE IS IMPERSONATED ... POORLY. THE FOLLOWING FANFICTION CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND DUE TO ITS CONTENT IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE.

Skeeter’s Bar was the obvious choice for Stan and Wendy’s engagement party, if only because no other establishment in South Park could withstand such a honky tonk. Kenny arrived a quarter after nine, gave Stan a pat on the back and Wendy a kiss on the cheek. They gushed at his present—a cheesy landscape painting he pulled out of his dick that afternoon—but soon flitted away to socialize with someone who could handle more than five seconds of conversation. 

This act of mercy on their part freed Kenny to the bar’s sparsely populated perimeter. He settled down at an unclaimed table with a glass of tap beer, prepared to watch the night unfold like a crow perched on a telephone wire. Half the people in attendance were unrecognizable, save for the familiar orange blob of hair racing around his peripheral vision: Kyle, Stan’s best man and the orchestrator of this whole shindig. Kenny whistled at him the second he tripped into the vicinity. 

Kyle stumbled to a cartoonish halt. “Kenny!” 

Kenny  pointed at t h e  open seat across the table . “Sit down before you pass out.” 

“Wow—” Kyle performed a manly side-hug, then sidled into the offered chair grinning big. “I didn’t even see you come in!”

“Oh, you know. I stick to the shadows.” Kenny appraised his frazzled friend over the top of his beer. “I hope you’re not such a spaz at the _actual_ wedding.” 

“I didn’t expect this many people to show up. It was supposed to be a _small_ get-together.” 

“People want an excuse to party. Not like they get much opportunity to.”

“I should’ve had everybody RSVP,” Kyle lamented. He straightened the collar of his disheveled button down, a constant preener. The guy micromanaged best in retrospect.

“Can’t do anything about it now. Just kick back.” Kenny slid the beer towards him. “Take this. I don’t want it.” 

“Thanks.” Kyle chugged half the glass. He wiped his mouth and gave Kenny a warm gaze, shoulders set at ease with alcohol and good company. “I’m glad you’re here. I don’t see you enough. You’re too busy with your concubines.” 

“They’re models,” Kenny corrected. “I’m a professional painter.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously. It’s all an artistic pursuit.”

“Right. I’m sure they keep coming back for the _creative_ merit.” 

“Aw, shit. There might be a little something extra in store for ‘em, if they want it.”

“It’s just so weird,” Kyle said, serious again. “You’re like some Andy Warhol. You went from dealing drugs to dealing art. You could go to New York if you wanted.” 

“Fuck that,” Kenny scoffed. “I’m fine where I am. The mountains are more inspirational than anything in the city. It’s all overrated bullshit out there—” He cut himself off before he dove into a rant on metropolitan postmodernism. “Anyway, I’m just surprised as you are. Never thought I’d get clean. Never thought Stan and Wendy would finally tie the knot, either.” 

Kyle  raised  the beer . “I’ll toast to that.” 

“How’s the firm?” Kenny asked. A game of catch up was required every time he slunk back into town. “Your dad’s set to retire soon, right?”

“Yup,” Kyle said. “It hasn’t been too bad. Except for Randy. He comes in every other week threatening to file for divorce.” 

Kenny snorted. His ponytail loosened—he’d combed his hair back under a pretense of nicety, but dressed the same as he did when painting. Or peddling drugs, for that matter. People tended to allow stained flannel and ripped jeans no matter the occasion once you sold a picture for thousands of dollars. Oddities refurbished into commodities. “At this point it’s Sharon’s own damn fault for sticking with him,” he said. 

Kyle shrugged.  “Some people are like that.”  His gaze sharpened with meaning; Kenny bit the inside of his cheek, knowing what was coming. “ They stay together because they don’t know anything else. I see it all the time—”  A  miraculous distraction presented itself in the form of  shatter ed  glass . Kyle’s brow furrowed. “Speaking of...” 

They both witnessed  Randy attempt to mop a broken whiskey  bottle with his bare hands. Stan  and Wendy swooped in  to lend their assistance,  whilst  Sharon turned a blind eye, nurs ing a glass of wine. 

“Thirty minutes and he’ll be starting a fistfight,” Kyle said. 

“It’ll take less than that,” Kenny countered. 

Kyle had another sip of beer and leaned back in his seat. Kenny mirrored him, suspicious of his characteristic I’m-about-to-ask-a-loaded-question look. 

“What?” he prompted. No sense in dragging it out.

“Uh, just.” Kyle’s eyes darted to the Broncos fixture beside their table, his countenance aged further when cast in neon. “Hear from Cartman?” 

Go figure. Kenny fingered the cigarettes in his pocket, but held off on the social equivalent of an emergency eject button. Kyle was his friend, and Cartman’s too. Kind of. “Nope,” he said. “Was he supposed to come?”

“I don’t know.” Kyle hunched forward now that Kenny had given him the green light to gossip. “There’s a fifty-fifty chance. I texted him last week but he didn’t reply.” 

“Well—” Kenny swiped the beer glass into his hand. If he couldn’t smoke, alcohol worked in a pinch. “I wouldn’t bet on him showing his face.”

A gust of  wintry  wind heralded a new arrival. Kyle looked to see who it was.  “ Um, Kenny?” 

Kenny’s epiglottis spasmed. Kyle rallied around the table and thumped his back, ejecting snot out of his nose. Through fallen locks of hair he observed Cartman’s rectangle frame stomp towards Stan and Wendy. 

“Hey, jackasses!”

They spun away from Randy’s drunken janitorial duties to be met with an even greater nuisance.

“Cartman, dude—” Stan wiped his whiskeyed palms onto the front of his sweater. “—uh, hey—”

Wendy elbowed in front of her  fiancé before he  initiated a handshake,  features drawn  in tempered distaste. “Hello, Eric.” 

Cartman thrust an envelope forward. Kenny hated to admit it, but he looked good. Dressed in a razor sharp suit, bangs slicked off his forehead. “Here,” he said. “Congratulations.” 

“Oh.” Wendy blinked at the gift. “Thank you?”

Kyle appeared next to Kenny’s ear. “Hey, I’m—”

“Jesus!” Kenny nearly leaped out of his chair. “Fucking hell, man.”

“Sorry! I’m going to go keep an eye on things.”

“I’ll come with.”

“Uh, are you sure?”

“ _Yes_. Let’s go.”

They arrived just as Wendy sliced the envelope with  a manicured thumbnail. 

Kenny  huddled  behind Kyle. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Kyle said. An old basketball champ, he was the only other person tall enough to mask Kenny’s elongated gait. “A card or something.”

Kenny peered around his friend’s Jewfro. What Wendy held wasn’t a card, but a pamphlet. “‘Alpha and Beta Relations: An Unnatural Abomination,’” she read. She slapped the pamphlet into Cartman’s chest. “Fuck you, fatass!” 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Cartman drawled, arms spread in a deployment for ambivalence, “I’m just _proposing_ you might wanna rethink your decision—”

“That’s low, dude,” Stan said. “Even for you. We’ve been friends forever. But if you only stopped by to be a dick—”

“I’m not! Honest.” Cartman snatched the pamphlet off the floor, opened it up to reveal a piece of paper. “Look, see? It’s a JC Penny’s gift certificate.” 

“What the hell are we supposed to do with _that_?” Wendy demanded. 

“I dunno. Get a set of dinner plates. That’s what people want when they get married, right? It’s very thoughtful!”

Stan plucked the gift certificate out of Cartman’s hands. His lips pursed at the amount listed. “It’s only fifty dollars.”

“ _Only_ fifty?” Cartman stole it back. “If you don’t want it, I’ll take it!”

“You need to _leave_ ,” Wendy snarled. 

Stan soothed his  fuming  alpha fiancée  with an arm around her waist. “ Honey , c’mon.  He’s just kidding. It was a stupid joke.” 

“I’m not kidding,” Cartman said. “I’m serious. You two are gonna be wishing you listened to me five years from now, with your,” he waved the gift certificate around, “temperaments all screwed up. But I figured you might as well get a Pioneer Woman crock-pot out of your pain.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with our temperaments,” Stan said.

“I can’t say the same about _yours_ , Cartman,” Wendy added. 

Kenny  stepped back . “I can’t watch this, man.” 

Kyle  twisted after him . “Are you okay?” 

He flashed a sardonic peace sign. “I’m gonna dip out for a smoke. Let me know how it ends.” 

“Alright, then.”

Kenny zoned out the rest of Cartman and Wendy’s bickering, supplemented by Stan’s pleas for reconciliation, and had almost made it to the door when Wendy’s culminate argument stopped him in his tracks: “—just because you ruined _your_ marriage with outdated social constructs doesn’t mean you have to project them onto everyone else!”

A hush fell over the bar.  C old air slipped under the door and tugged Kenny’s boots. He couldn’t move.  Cartman stood five feet away, stiff as a board—all he had to do was turn around, and then—

“Your relationship fell apart because of _you_ ,” Wendy continued, “not some imaginary biological precedent! So don’t come around giving me the same excuses you gave—”

“Wends!” Stan squeezed her waist. “Don’t. Just drop it.” 

Wendy  put a hand on his chest. Claiming territory. “Leave,  Eric.” 

The shoulders of Cartman’s suit snapped into a trembling line. His head swiveled towards Stan. “Are you serious ?”

Stan twiddled his thumbs, deferential. “I think you should go, man.”

Kenny  couldn’t stomach anything else. He  fumbled with the door and  staggered outside. It took three failed clicks before his cigarette immolated.  S moke funneled down  his lungs ,  unclenched his skeleton . He swung around the corner and leaned against the bar’s stucco exterior, let out a long exhale.

The front door screeched open. Heavy, plodding footsteps followed. Muttered curses gained proximity. Kenny scoped the parking lot—Cartman’s sportscar gleamed directly in front of him. It let out a warning beep as Cartman hit the key fob: _Run, motherfucker!_

Kenny ninja-shuffled down the wall, but escape was futile. Cartman halted upon  seeing him. Kenny  threw roots into the concrete and  sucked another drag. Do not engage, do not move,  do not appear frightened . 

His estranged husband  stalked  forward . Kenny  shifted  his boots an inch to the left, kept the rest of him pointed north. He worried if he looked they’d both shatter into pieces. “Hi,”  he  mumbled . 

“ _Hello_ ,” Cartman greeted. His back thumped beside Kenny’s shoulder. He reached into his suit and pulled out a cigarette of his own. “Got a light?” 

Kenny knew for a fact  Cartman always carried a ridiculous gold Zippo. He passed his chintzy Bic anyway. C artman took extra care to molest his fingertips returning it. 

They stewed  in silence for a couple minutes,  until Cartman claimed the first word. He’d get the last word, too,  or die trying .  “So. You saw all that shit?” 

Ken ny flicked his cigarette.  “ Yeah,”  he said once the embers had died beneath their feet,  and  waited an additional pause to  let to a car whiz  down the  ro ad . “ It was a pretty  dick move.” 

“I’m trying to help them out,” Cartman said. “Hasten the inevitable realization that marriage is a sham.” 

Kenny  tossed a cheap shot. “You’re the one who doesn’t want to get divorced.” 

Cartman responded same as usual. “I’m not letting you take all the money. Broflovski’s obviously going to side with you if we bring it to court.”

“There’s other lawyers around besides Kyle.”

“As if you’d trust anybody else with your finances. I’ve already told you a thousand times—split it down the middle, and you’ll never see me again.”

Kenny  pocketed his  unoccupied hand, otherwise it’d go looking for Cartman’s. “I don’t never  want to see you again.” 

“Tell that to Eduardo. And Arya. And however many other undergrads you cheated on me with.” 

“I never cheated on you.”

“Okay, sure.”

A breeze blew Kenny’s hair back, exposing Cartman’s scrunched profile to the corner of his eye. Cartman felt the weight of his inadvertent stare and turned. They were connected by a string.

Kenny cut it loose, glancing away. “How’s, um, the side hustle?”

“I’m representing somebody with actual talent, for once,” Cartman said. He didn’t sound too disappointed about Kenny’s ocular avoidance, which meant nothing; he could mask emotions so well he often forgot what he felt in the first place. “I’m really raking it in. Got a bigger cut.”

“That’s good. Who is it?”

“Well—It’s not an individual, per se.”

Kyle’s voice entered the fray: “He’s the PC Babies’ manager.”

“Oh, shit,” Kenny said. “You sold out.”

Cartman expelled dragon’s breath. “I did not sell out!” He re-appropriated his ire onto Kyle. “What the fuck are you doing, kike?”

“Damage control,” Kyle said.

“Uh-huh.” Cartman’s fleshy cheeks billowed with another cloud of smoke. “Get your Jew nose out of my business.”

Kyle stood his asthmatic ground. “Glad to see you’re both on good terms.”

“We _were_ until you showed up,” Cartman said, still in the habit of speaking on Kenny’s behalf. He flung his cigarette to the ground. “You know what? Fuck you guys. Fuck this whole fucking night.”

Kenny stayed glued to the wall, funneled smoke through his nostrils to mask the loss of Cartman’s cologne. “See you around, baby.”

“Oh, don’t ‘ _bab_ _y_ ’ me,” Cartman snapped. He threw his car door open and stabbed a double-pronged point. “I don’t want to see either of you again unless it’s at arbitration!”

With that, he screamed out of the parking lot, cutting a minivan off in his haste. A couple angry honks and yelled abuse—then nothing. Kenny’s head buzzed at the quiet. He slid his boot forward and smashed Cartman’s abandoned cigarette.

Kyle touched his shoulder. “Don’t let him get to you, man.”

“I won’t,” Kenny lied. He tossed his cigarette next to Cartman’s. “Let’s go back inside.”

/

_Splat!_

Blood red paint lanced a white field. Some of it speckled onto Kenny’s bare feet. He danced around the wet, untreated canvas stretched across the middle of his expansive studio and slung another load. He dipped into one of the open cans anchoring the canvas, backtracked between the footprints left in his wake, and—

The sound system cut out, stilling his gloved hand.

“You mad about something?”

Kenny looked up. One of his concubines stood in the doorway wearing a pair of lacy panties, backlit by the gridded floor-to-ceiling windows. An old band t-shirt of his—threadbare thanks to its original borrower—hung off her supermodel frame. Anastasia. Last month, it was Bartholomew. Cartman had always griped about their exotic names.

“Uh, kind of,” Kenny said. The studio, and his head, hummed with residual bass lines. He shucked his gloves off and deposited them directly onto the canvas. Not giving a fuck was his brand. Like all creative endeavors, it wasn’t anything but a fantasy he could not manifest in real life.

Anastasia toed between strewn materials and peered at the work in progress. “Very Pollock of you,” she noted. “You haven’t done abstract in awhile.”

“It’s nothing,” Kenny dismissed. He smeared his feet on a naked spot of canvas before transitioning to the cold floorboards; the windows facing the mountains were not meant to act as insulation. “I’m just screwing around.”

“It has potential. Maybe you could start another series.”

Kenny kicked a pile of paintbrushes aside and sat down. He retrieved his cigarette case from the front pocket of his overalls—he rolled his own in bulk, requiring such pretension—pinched a cigarette between stained fingers and lit up. “I’ve gotta finish the fifty I’m working on before I do that.”

His current muse knelt behind him. Her artificial green hair mixed with his natural blond into vomit. “Think about it. You’ve been so figurative lately. It’d be an interesting break.”

“Maybe.”

Anastasia handed him one of the many ashtrays littering the studio. He kissed her in thanks.

“You’re going back to Arizona today, right?” he asked.

She lifted a penciled brow. “That’s _tomorrow._ Your opening’s _tonight_. Remember?”

Kenny had not remembered. “What the hell? Why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

Anastasia followed him to the dump sink, her voice undercut by running water as he furiously scrubbed his hands. “I didn’t want to disturb you while you were working!”

“Working,” Kenny huffed. The cigarette fell out of his mouth and smoldered in the drain. “I wasn’t _working_. I was just—never mind.” He’d given up trying to dissuade people from thinking he was some kind of genius. Cartman never held him in such high regard, and he wouldn’t have waited until the last minute to get ready for an event, either. “What fucking time is it?”

“Um—” Anastasia squinted at the analog clock above his head. “Three.”

“Fuck me!”

The studio comprised the uppermost of three floors; Kenny’s bedroom sat on the second story. He clomped down the stairs, Anastasia scrambling after him.

“Kenny, it’s okay—”

“It’s two hours to Denver! I need to get there _early—_ the reception’s at _six—_ ”

“So we have plenty of time!”

“No we don’t!” Kenny stormed into his walk-in closet, half-empty now that it was bereft of Cartman’s expensive clothes. Cartman had been his personal stylist. Cartman had been a lot of things—and this was Kenny’s first reception without his lead. “What the fuck should I _wear_?”

“I don’t know.” Anastasia sat down on his bed and crossed her legs. “Just pick something. I thought you didn’t care about stuff like that.”

“I _don’t_ , but—” Kenny raked past his collection of thrifted flannels, behind which were articles Cartman arm-wrestled him into buying; stuff made of cashmere and silk, materials that never clung to his skin. “It’s about _marketing_ ,” he said. Cartman’s favorite slogan. “I have to market myself.”

“That’s contradictory,” Anastasia sniffed.

Kenny laid a randomized outfit beside her: a patterned sweater, a navy blazer, and a pair of tan slacks. “How’s that?”

“Looks okay to me.”

“But is it, like, eclectic enough? I have to look weird. But polished.”

“It’s fine. Just put it on.”

“I need to _shower_ , first.”

“Want me to join you?”

“No!”

Anastasia scowled. “Okay!”

Kenny bit off a groan. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I could’ve used a heads up, is all.”

“I’m not your assistant.”

“Yeah, I know.” Kenny wrenched his bedside table open. He tossed the small, velvety box therein on top of his clothes. “Get ready. I wanna leave in half an hour.”

They crammed into his truck forty-five minutes later, then had to wait fifteen minutes for the thing to warm up. Kenny played the part of a rich, tortured artist pretty well and acclimated to all the flashy crap it entailed, but he’d held out on his pickup. His dad passed it on to his brother, who passed it on to him, and he intended to drive it until it keeled over and died. Hopefully it’d survive tonight.

Anastasia gave him the cold shoulder the whole way to Denver. Kenny had shows all over the country yet only attended those within the tristate area. It helped bolster his persona, but in reality he didn’t give enough of a damn to fly out to New York or San Francisco or Chicago or wherever the hell else. He chainsmoked like a madman, especially once they caught city traffic. He needed a fake police light. Something that told everybody he was important, get the fuck out of the way.

They careened into the gallery lot at five-thirty. Employees in black suits and cocktail dresses hounded Kenny immediately and delivered him to a small room decorated in ugly sculptures. There, the gallery director tortured him with an analysis of his latest series. He was about to drop his pants, bend over, and spread his cheeks so she could properly kiss his ass when somebody announced it was time to move.

Anastasia went to get a drink, leaving him alone in a sea of well-dressed people. Just like at Skeeter’s Bar he stuck to the perimeter of the room. He kept his interactions with critics one-way, preferably in print. At past shows Cartman’s ornery presence scared them off. Without that buffer Kenny was forced to fondle their balls and spew nonsense about the deeper meanings only they saw in his work.

Some spiffy cocksucker dragged him to the largest piece in the show, a ten-by-eight foot painting of two naked bodies tangled together in subdued hues. “The title,” the critic mused. “It befuddles me.”

Kenny eyed the placard underneath the piece. “It’s just one word.”

“‘Love.’ Yes. This is quite an odd depiction.”

“Well, uh. It’s, um, commentary—”

A hefty arm, hiked to overcompensate for the height difference, fell around Kenny’s shoulders. The scent of spicy cologne filled his nose. He whirled.

“Hey,” Cartman grinned.

Kenny’s eyes widened. “Oh—hey—”

Cartman addressed the critic, “If you’ll excuse us?”

His arm immediately went back to his side once they were out of sight within a sheltered alcove. “I fucking hate wearing this thing,” he said, lifting his left hand.

The same wedding band burned on Kenny’s ring finger. “Yeah.”

Cartman leaned into the open and stole two glasses off a passing waiter’s tray. He shoved one at Kenny, then knocked back his own, came down with a smirk. “Playing house is worth it, though. Wanna know how much money we made?”

Kenny didn’t give a fuck about money. His wealth could only be attributed to Cartman. If Cartman hadn’t pushed his stuff he’d still be slinging dime bags in South Park, and they both knew it.

He collapsed into a minimalistic chair, lacking the strength to stay upright. “Sure,” he said.

Cartman sat across from him. No designer in the world could lessen his pudge, but the Armani suit he wore concealed it nicely. Kenny wanted to tear its buttons off and dig in; he took a drink instead.

“Already sold half,” Cartman reported. “I’ll probably chuck the rest by the end of the night. Couple professors. Some collectors. That gallery director’s wet for you. She asked for the big one right away.”

“Cool.”

“And get this— _Elway’s_ in the house.”

Kenny lowered his glass to his knee. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Cartman confirmed. “But don’t even think about talking to him. I don’t want you screwing it up.”

“Isn’t the whole point of me being here to help sell?” Kenny asked.

Cartman snorted into a second sip of his drink. “Please. You’re the face. I’m the brains. All he has to do is get a glimpse of you. Leave the rest to me.”

And weren’t those the magic words? Kenny almost went omega hearing them. “Okay,” he said. “I trust you.”

Cartman wouldn’t stand for sentimentality. “Whatever, dude. Save it for your bitch. She’s been pounding vodka like there’s no tomorrow. I saw her at the minibar.”

“She’s Russian,” Kenny informed.

“You’re so unpatriotic. Always bedding _foreigners_.”

“Don’t be xenophobic about it.”

Cartman laughed. His smile could rival a shark’s. “Jesus—where’d you pick that up? You need to stop hanging around so many college kids.”

“She’s not a college kid. Post-grad. Philosophy.”

“Figures.”

Kenny frowned. “You act like I’m a pedophile.”

“I’m not. It’s just—ugh.” Cartman jabbed his chest. “You’re being indoctrinated. All these intellectual sluts. They’re using you for clout.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Kenny said. He suspected Cartman was only mad because _his_ indoctrination was being overshadowed by that of others. Sometimes Kenny thought he’d never had an independent thought in his life. He shoved Cartman’s hand off his chest, despite yearning for more physical contact. “And they’re not using me.”

“Yes, they are,” Cartman insisted. “Classic beta male. You can’t stand up for yourself without an alpha around, can you?”

Oh, Christ. Kenny bent over his knees. Their glasses and wedding rings clacked together. “You’re not an _alpha_ , Eric.”

“I am too!” Cartman thumped his chest. “Look at me! I radiate authority!”

“That has nothing to do with anything,” Kenny said. “You’ve got a big head, yeah—but where’re the knot to match?”

Cartman’s bravado deflated. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you,” Kenny returned. “You never presented at all. _I_ would know. So don’t come at me with your bullshit.”

“I’m a late bloomer,” Cartman said. “I haven’t been able to reach my full potential because of your _neutrality._ That’s what I tried telling Stan and Wendy—it just can’t work!”

“So what?” Kenny asked. “Have you found any slick omegas to dick down?”

“As a matter of fact, yes I have.”

Kenny blinked, not having expected that. “And?”

Cartman shuttered his haughty expression “And—that’s it.”

“They were probably cheap hookers, am I right? You get what you pay for.”

“Oh, please. Coming from the guy who’s got a revolving door of models he reimburses with _sex—_ agh, shit—”

Cartman’s drink thudded to the floor. He slumped over, clutching his stomach. Kenny put his own glass down and curled towards him. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Cartman hissed. “Don’t touch me!”

Kenny reeled backward. “Okay!”

Cartman straightened, forehead puckered. “Stomach bug. It’s flu season.”

Kenny belatedly noticed the sweat on his temples. “You shouldn’t have come if you’re sick, dude.”

“I’m not sick,” Cartman said. “I’ve just been—feeling weird.”

“Weird how?” Kenny asked, unable to hide his concern.

“Are you a licensed medical professional? I think not.” Cartman unbuttoned his suit jacket, flapped some air around his gut. “I just need a second. I’ll be fine. Stop looking at me like you care.”

“Of course I care,” Kenny said. He fought the urge to fix Cartman’s mussed bangs; he’d be pissed once he realized they were out of place. “I didn’t want to break up. I still—”

“Don’t,” Cartman said. “Whatever you were about to say, don’t say it.” He rose on unsteady Gucci oxfords. “Now shut up and pretend we’re happily married.”

Kenny hung onto Cartman’s arm for the rest of the evening. Cartman needed it, too. He kept making odd expressions. His cheeks flared with intermittent hot flashes. Kenny could feel the sweat percolating down his back through his suit. He pulled himself together whenever someone approached, then sunk into Kenny’s side once they were alone. Despite the circumstances, it was the closest they’d been since Cartman had left, and Kenny relished every minute of it.

An elderly man bedecked in a reverential envoy waltzed into the gallery. “Elway,” Cartman said.

Kenny relinquished his hold. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“I can’t believe it.” Cartman’s face cleared with boyish excitement. “How’s my hair?”

Kenny tucked his bangs behind his ear. “You look great.”

His hand lingered. Or rather, Cartman let it linger. “Thanks.”

“Right.” He stepped back before his heart broke all over again. “Good luck.”

“Uh—yeah—” Cartman rebuttoned his jacket, fiddled with his cuff links. “I’ll, um, see you later?”

“Meet me at the minibar?” Kenny asked.

“Sure,” Cartman said. Cold and distant, quick as a snap freeze. “Go peel your Russian ho off the floor.”

Cartman looked sexiest when he was angry or selling something. Kenny didn’t stick around to watch him strut off.

Anastasia wasn’t on the floor. She was, however, splayed across the bartop surrounded by empty cocktails, her green up-do crumbling down her shoulders like vines. Kenny sidled beside her. “Hey.” 

She braced her cheek on an outstretched arm. “How’s your husband?”

“Pleasant as always.” Kenny flagged the bartender down for a water to foist on her. “You need to hydrate.”

She sat up. “I dunno what else you expect me to do, all by myself.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I’m sorry. I have to—”

Her glass thunked. “I know, Kenny.” She wasn’t the first to tire of his excuses, and wouldn’t be the last. “Wanna smoke?”

“Yes, God.”

The balcony was thankfully empty. Kenny retrieved his cigarette case, then divested his blazer and tossed it over Anastasia’s shoulders. He reached for the lighter after she lit up, but she grabbed his neck and yanked him close, pressing her cherry into the tip of his cigarette.

He escaped her clutch and crossed his arms on the balcony’s edge. Downtown traffic bounced back at him through the glass partition. Across the street some bum was selling gimmicky artwork—spray-painted celestial scenes ten bucks a pop. Kenny envied him and his simple life and meager wages. He wanted to be a nobody on the sidewalk, not the icon everyone inside purported him to be.

“What’re you thinking about?” Anastasia asked.

Kenny nodded at the bum. “That guy. Down there. Look at him.”

“He’s nobody. He’s just some random person.”

“Exactly.”

Smoke snaked out of Anastasia’s painted lips. She turned away from the street, looked through the gallery’s translucent outer wall. “I don’t understand you. You’ve got everything anybody could want.”

The bum started packing up. Kenny wanted to go down there and give him all his money—all his paintings, all his fame—and trade lives. “I don’t want any of this shit. I never did.”

“Then why go out and get it?”

Kenny put his back to the fantasy. “I didn’t. That was Eric.”

Anastasia glanced at him. “What?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I was just out of rehab, for like the fifth time. All my buddies had a meeting. ‘How can we keep Kenny clean?’ Cartman practically locked me in his basement. ‘If all you can do is paint,’ he said, ‘then paint.’ So I did. He took care of me.”

“Oh,” Anastasia said. “That was nice of him.”

“He’s a nice guy when it counts,” Kenny divulged. “I stayed in his basement for awhile. When I came up for air, I had so much work. He looked at it—knew it was worth something. And it all started there. He told me I had to pay him back. Neither of us knew how big it would get.”

“When did you get married?” Anastasia asked.

After another drag to smoke out the sentimentality, Kenny said, “Before I was rich. Before anything. I was doing these little college shows, you know. Art fairs and stuff. Cartman and I went all around the state. We were at this shitty motel near Grand Junction. I just—asked him. I didn’t expect him to say yes.”

“But he did,” Anastasia said.

“He did,” Kenny said.

They stayed out for seconds, then thirds, then fourths. Kenny didn’t feel like going back in. Anastasia was fine company when she didn’t talk or try fucking him. He clicked his case shut at two cigarettes left, and was in the process of regaining his blazer when Cartman blustered through the door.

“There you are, asshole!”

Kenny snatched his hands off Anastasia’s shoulders. “Um, I wanted a smoke—”

“Yeah? Just a smoke? About about a whole fucking pack? It’s been an _hour_.” Cartman shoved Anastasia aside and gripped the front of Kenny’s sweater. “I got Elway!”

Kenny grasped Cartman’s hands, intending to pry him off, but ended up just holding them to his chest. “You did?”

“Yes! A whole _three_ paintings—”

“John Elway bought three of my paintings?”

“Oh, man.” Cartman fell into him, laughing. “Wait till _Stan_ hears! He’s gonna be so fucking jealous—”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Huh? What? Who cares?”

“Me.” Kenny palmed his forehead. “You’re warmer than before.”

Cartman remembered everything all of a sudden. He ducked out from Kenny’s arms and smacked into the balcony’s partition. “Get offa me!”

“Sorry.” Kenny opened his case for another smoke, offered his last cigarette. “Here.”

Cartman stuck the olive branch between his teeth. He flourished his gold Zippo, then held it out for Kenny’s use. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Kenny bent into the flame. “Thanks.”

Cartman stowed the Zippo back into his pocket. He gave Anastasia a shrewd examination, blew an exhale in her direction. “What’re _you_ looking at?”

She wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at Kenny. “I need to talk to you,” she said.

Kenny frowned. “We’ve been talking.”

“About something else,” she clarified.

“Look, my Soviet sister,” Cartman said. “Whatever you wanna say in front of my _husband_ you can say in front of me.”

Kenny didn’t have time for a double take—Anastasia apprehended his arm. He gave Cartman his cigarette for safekeeping before he got whisked inside.

“What the hell?” he demanded.

She put a finger to her lips. “Shh!”

“ _What_?” Kenny asked. “What are you _shhh-ing_ me for?”

“Eric is going into heat,” she whispered.

Kenny’s brain shortcircuited. He glanced around, but they were far enough into the night where people were more concerned with getting drunk than bothering him. He ferried Anastasia behind a decorative eyesore, willed his heart to still. “No he isn’t,” he said. “He’s just sick. It’s flu season!” 

“He is not sick, Kenny.  I can smell it on him. I’m an alpha. You’re a beta;  y ou can’t.” 

Kenny  checked the balcony. Cartman had both cigarettes between his lips.  He jerked his head, beckoning Kenny to go back outside. “You’re sure?” 

“Yes,” Anastasia promised.

“He never—he never really presented one way or another,” Kenny said. “I assumed he was, like, an anomaly or something.”

Anastasia’s mouth fell open. “This is  _ first _ heat?” 

Kenny threw his hands up. “I guess! I didn’t know either!”

“You need to take him home.”

“ Oh, please— h e’s not go nna want to  go home with me.” 

“This is serious! You’re his husband!”

“ Since w hen did you start giving a damn about holy matrimony?” 

“I personally don’t prescribe to such outdated concepts of  _ monogamy _ , but Eric needs you. I’ll  stay a t a hotel and call you when I get back to Arizona.” 

Anastasia husked  Kenny’s  blazer, bundled it into his arms, and pushed  him outside.  The door swung shut. He watched  her tight ass swagger away. 

A bigger ass walked towards him. “What was that all about?” Cartman asked.

Kenny put his blazer on. “Nothing. Give me my cigarette back.”

“Say please.”

“Please.”

“Take it, if you want it.”

Kenny stole  it out of his mouth,  moistened with slobber . “Dick.” 

Cartman followed him back to the balcony’s edge. Kenny checked where that bum had been, but he was long gone. “How’re you feeling?”

“You already asked.”

“Yeah, but I want a real answer.”

“I feel like shit,” Cartman admitted. He pressed his face into Kenny’s shoulder. “It fucking sucks.”

Kenny  startled at the surrender.  “What’s the problem?” 

“I’m hot. I’ve got a massive headache. I won’t survive a meeting with that cougar director.”

“Let me take you home. Please.”

“I gotta stay. I’m your accountant.”

“No, you’re my husband. I think John Elway will understand.”

Cartman hummed. He took a final drag that singed Kenny’s blazer, then chucked his cigarette into the street where it probably landed on some poor pigeon’s head. “I don’t have anybody to babysit Mittens.”

“Mittens will be okay for one night, babe.”

“Wanna see a picture?”

“Yeah.”

Cartman retrieved his phone.  Its lock screen depicted a picture of t heir  brown tabby , Mittens, curled up in one of Kenny’s cut-off tees. “I stole the shirt when I left,”  Cartman explained. “ She sleeps on it every night.” 

Kenny smiled.  “I miss  her .” 

“ She misses you. You’re h er father, for Christ’s sake.” Cartman clicked  his  phone off. “You should’ve got half custody. I was a real boner about it.” 

“ Mittens can still come back. You too.” 

Cartman looked up.  Whatever he would’ve said was aborted by a terrible be l ch. He  ripped away from Kenny’s side and gripped the glass partition. 

“Eric!” Kenny went after him, cupped his neck as he started puking. “Aw, man. You’re all messed up, aren’t you? How long as this been going on?”

“Couple days,” Cartman wheezed. “Ever since Skeeter’s. Wendy—she poisoned me.”

“We’re leaving,” Kenny decided. “C’mon.”

He guided Cartman back into the gallery, brushed off the staff and director’s inquiries  all the way downstairs,  and emerged victorious into the parking lot. 

Cartman dug his heels at the sight of Kenny’s pickup. “I fucking hate that thing. I’m not getting in.”

“Yes, you are.” Kenny overpowered his a loose-limbed, bleary-eyed fight, easily depositing him into the passenger seat. “It’ll be okay. We’ll be home before you know it.”

Cartman edged away before Kenny could start romantically caressing him. “You’re not taking me to a hospital, are you? I don’t do doctors.”

“I know you don’t do doctors, babe.” Kenny managed to pet his ruddy cheek. “Don’t worry. It’s just me, right?”

He got an elbow to the face for all his doting. “That’s what I’m worried _about_.”

“Fucking—asshole!” Kenny slammed Cartman’s door, sent a quick prayer rounding the hood of the truck, then got behind the wheel and resumed bitching. “You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?”

“I haven’t been a pain in your ass for two entire months.”

“And who’s fault is that? ’Cause it sure as hell ain’t mine!”

“Quit _yelling_.”

“Quit pissing me off!”

“Oh, I haven’t missed _this_.” Cartman wrangled his seatbelt across his chest. Its click truncated their argument. “Just fucking drive.”

Kenny withheld from speeding into the street, fearing Cartman would upchuck the gallery’s catered kebabs and they’d suffer the stench all the way down I-70. His white-knuckled grip didn’t regain color until they escaped the tailend of evening rush hour, whereupon the interstate unfolded black and gray and quiet.

Cartman ruined it pretty quick. “My Tesla’s back there,” he said.

“Did you just now realize?” Kenny asked.

“I just now _thought_ about it.”

“It’s got cameras and shit. You’ll know if somebody fucks with it.”

“That won’t _stop_ them from fucking with it.”

“Well don’t get all worked up. You’ll get sick again.”

“Your presence sickens me enough.”

“Would you cut it out pretending you hate me?” Kenny requested. “You were all over me back at the gallery—all jealous about Anastasia.”

“Anastasia’s a fucking succubus,” Cartman leered. “You oughta go check with Father Maxi and make sure she didn’t steal your soul when you weren’t looking.”

“She’s okay. She’s kind of a bitch till you get to know her. I’ve got a type for people like that.”

“Oh-ho-ho. That really hurts, Kenny. That really strikes a nerve.”

“I didn’t like her too much, if that makes you feel better.” Cartman did not deserve Kenny’s honesty, but Kenny offered it anyway; it was one of the many diseased dynamics that festered between them. “She fucking—she didn’t tell me about the show until _three_ , today.”

Sometimes the sorry trade-off worked to Kenny’s advantage. Cartman relaxed a little. “That’s bullshit,” he said. “If I were there, I’d have been getting you into shape by _noon_ at the latest.”

Kenny tapped the turn signal. The blinkers clucked a metronome beat, then cut off once he switched lanes.

He thought that was the end of it, until Cartman spoke again. “You were always like that. You’re such an airhead. You couldn’t stick to a goddamn schedule at _gunpoint_.”

“I cannot.”

“It’s terrible. It’s the most annoying thing about you—besides all the rest.”

“I don’t know what day it is half the time, if you want to know the truth.”

“Because I was the one who kept your _calender._ And I made the _phone_ calls and I handled the _money._ I did everything in my power so you could play princess in your ivory tower and paint your life away.”

Kenny postponed his reply until a semi truck trundled past; its departure left the air heavy with exhaust. “I should’ve been more grateful. I don’t know the last time I told you thanks for all that.”

“You haven’t thanked me since I picked you up from rehab.” Cartman groused.

“Sounds about right.”

“It’s not like I intended to waste my twenties suckling your ball sack back then. I had dreams and ambitions too. I gave up a hell of a lot for you, Kenny. I don’t think you ever realized that.”

Kenny had not ever realized that. He had never heard the full brunt of Cartman’s grievances, either. It’d come up in heated fights all trussed in hyperbole but they never sat down and had a real discussion about it. Cartman didn’t leave any room, or time, or emotional stability for such a thing.

Maybe his heat was frying his brain, boiling down all the cognitive cobras he armored himself with, leaving nothing but the venomous truth. Kenny doubted hormone-addled confessions were the greatest impetus to stitching their marriage back together—but who knew if they’d get another chance.

“I dunno, man,” he sighed after a long stretch of silence. “You were always buying shit. Clothes. Shoes. Cars. I thought all you cared about was the money.”

Cartman rose from the sleepy slouch he’d nodded off to in the interim. “I thought all you cared about was the art.”

“I guess we both got distracted from what matters.”

“I guess.”

They dropped into another empty chasm which persisted even when Kenny pulled into a roadside gas station. He cracked his door, one toe slanted towards the concrete. “I’m gonna grab some cigarettes. You still smoke Camel Filters, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Cartman grunted, unrepentantly balled up.

“Be right back.”

“I’ll be here, dying.”

The cashier frowned at Kenny the second he walked in. He frowned back, confused, before he remembered what he was wearing. He still felt like a hick at heart and forgot how others interpreted his outer decorum. The only difference now was that instead of jockeying meth at a trailer park people assumed he should be drinking champagne at a five-star restaurant.

He diverted from the counter in favor of an aisle labeled _sexual wellnes_ _s,_ segmented in threes—alpha, beta, and omega, the first and third having the most products. Kenny fingered a plastic bottle of heat suppressants. Just touching them gave him so much anxiety that he phoned a friend.

Kyle answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, man.” Kenny hitched his knees low so the cashier wouldn’t see his head over the top of the metal shelves. “Uh, listen. I have a weird question.”

“Okay.” A fountain pen hit a leather desk pad; Kyle was in the office, working late as usual. Kenny would’ve felt guilty disturbing him if it was for literally any other reason. “What is it? You’re in Denver, aren’t you?”

“Not anymore. I’m at some gas station. I had to leave early.”

“Why?”

“Uh, well...”

“Kenny,” Kyle said. “Please tell me you’re not getting Plan B for whoever you’re with right now.”

“I’m with Cartman, actually.”

“Oh—damn. What happened?”

“It’s a long story. I can’t tell you right now. He’s waiting in the truck. But—okay, I’ll tell you. You can’t tell anybody, though.”

“Alright...”

“He’s going into heat,” Kenny announced.

Kyle chewed on it for a bit. “You’re sure?”

“Anastasia told me he was. She’s an alpha.”

“Jesus Christ.” Kyle’s ornate chair squeaked; he might’ve dropped to the floor. Kenny certainly wanted to. “No wonder Wendy was so pissed at him the other night.”

“Do you think she knows?” Kenny asked.

“Probably not consciously. But intuitively, yes. It’s, like, a biological thing.”

“She said that’s all made up.”

“The things Cartman believes are made up. The real science is Wendy alpha-ed out because an omega was coming into her territory. She’s already with Stan. She probably registered Cartman as competition, or something.”

“Oh.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Kyle said again, with embellishment. “Cartman’s an omega.”

“Dude, tell me about it. I thought he’d be one of those who never presents anything.”

“That’d be easier on both of you, for sure. How did he take the news?”

“Uh. I haven’t exactly told him yet.”

“Wait—he doesn’t know?”

“He thinks he’s sick. It’s flu season.”

“He’s not sick, Kenny.”

“I _know._ I’m gonna wait till we’re home. Sit down and give him the talk.”

“I dunno if he’ll still be _verbal_ by then. How far out are you?”

“We’re someplace close to Lawson, I think. I’m gonna get him a milkshake so he can cool down. Grind some some pills in it.”

“You’re going to drug him.”

Kenny scratched his neck. “I don’t know what the fuck else I can do. I can’t to break it to him in the _car_. He’ll probably shove me out to the freeway. Look—I just need help getting stuff. I don’t know what any of this is. They have _pads_ , man. For, you know.”

“Don’t be weird about it,” Kyle advised. “If you’re grossed out it’s gonna make everything worse.”

“I’m not grossed out,” Kenny snapped. “This entire thing is just insane. I didn’t think I’d be helping my ex-husband through his first heat at _thirty_ because he’s got some undiagnosed hormonal deficiency!”

“First of all,” Kyle said, “Cartman is not your ex-husband. You never legally separated. You still wear your wedding ring.”

“Only to shows so we can sell paintings,” Kenny defended.

“Second of all,” Kyle continued, “you need to get your shit together. Cartman’s going to be a mess. You’ve got, I don’t know,” he checked his fancy-shmancy wristwatch, “another hour and a half before his symptoms worsen. What does this gas station by Lawson carry in terms of omega medications?”

“Uhh.” Kenny looked back at the products in front of him. “Heat suppressants, pads… There’s like a thousand brands.”

“Get all of it. Is there anything that’ll encourage discharge production?”

“Encourage _what_?”

“It’s his first heat.”

“Oh, thanks. That explains it.”

“Just to be safe,” Kyle explained. “For when you bone him.”

“Oh—oh, holy shit.” Kenny really did drop to the floor. Legs skewed akimbo, his shoes reached the bottom of the shelf across from him. “I forgot. About that whole part of it.”

“You’ve had sex before. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s been months, Kyle.”

“Trust me, he won’t be holding out any longer tonight.”

A slimy tendril of unease coiled in Kenny’s gut. “I’m not going to take advantage of him.”

“I didn’t mean _that_ ,” Kyle said. “You know what I think?”

Kenny rolled his eyes. “Please share.”

“I think you’re to blame,” Kyle said. “I think this has probably been brewing for awhile. And I think when Cartman saw you for the first time in—how long? A month and half? It kicked his heat into gear. Because he got back with his mate.”

Kenny’s guts churned at the word. “You sound like an old person. Nobody says mate anymore.”

“It’s the _science_ ,” Kyle emphasized. “He’s going to want to fuck you because you’re his mate. The whole reason he went into heat in the first place is because you’re his mate. Look at it this way: even if he can’t _cognitively_ admit it, _biologically_ he is still in love with you. Isn’t that nice?”

“No. That’s super fucked up.”

“Well deal with it. This is happening whether you like it or not. Cartman definitely won’t like it, so be a _man_ and a good _husband_ and step up to the free throw line!”

“I hate when you talk sports. You sound like a goddamn junior league coach.”

“I’m going to hang up now,” Kyle warned. “Call me when you can. I have to know how it goes.”

“Fine,” Kenny sighed. “Thanks for letting me freak out.”

“No problem. Sounds like you needed it.”

“Wait—”

“Yes?”

“How do you know so much about all this?” Kenny asked. “This omega stuff? Last I knew you were only into other alphas.”

“My tastes have matured.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means I’ve been dating Butters for the past five months.”

Kenny’s jaw dropped. “You _have_?”

“Good luck, Kenny.”

The call clicked out. Kenny shoved his phone into his back pocket, along with Kyle’s bombshell and all his misgivings and trepidations. It was time to beta male the fuck up.

“Pump number four,” he told the cashier, unloading an armful of pills, a box of pads, and an extra large milkshake onto the counter. “And give me a pack of Camel Filters and Marlboro Reds.”

The cashier rang his purchases with mild nosiness. “You sure you should be driving, the condition you’re in?”

“It’s for my husband.” Kenny tossed a crisp Benjamin down. Throwing money at people never lost its charm. “Keep the change, asshole.”

Once outside, he squatted behind a stack of ready-to-burn firewood and dropped his plastic sack of omega goodies. He popped the heat suppressants open, crumbled a few pills into chunky bits which he mixed into the milkshake. The rest he kept in the bag. Hopefully Cartman wouldn’t notice.

“What’s all that shit?” Cartman noticed.

Kenny tied the sack up in a bow and put it in the backseat. “Nothing. Just some food for the last leg of the trip.” He threw a bag of Cheesy Poofs at Cartman to bolster his alibi. “There you go.”

Cartman ripped into the snacks with abandon. “Aw, fuck yes.”

“Don’t eat too fast,” Kenny reprimanded.

“Oh, right.” Cartman rubbed his orange fingertips off on his suit, beyond caring. “You got me a milkshake, too?”

“Chocolate and vanilla. They didn’t have strawberry, or else I would’ve put it in.”

“I love suicide.” Cartman flapped his fingers. “Gimme.”

Kenny passed the milkshake and the Camel Filters. “Here’s your smokes, too.”

“Goddamn. You feel guilty about something? Is this to make up for screwing the attendant in there?”

“I didn’t screw anybody.”

“What the hell took so long, then?”

“I needed to shit. I ate too many of those kebabs.”

“They were pretty good kebabs,” Cartman agreed.

Kenny hand-cranked his window and lit a cigarette. Marlboros tasted like straight garbage now that he’d spoiled himself with the tobacco he ordered fresh from Cuba, but they harkened back to a simpler era. Smoke exchanged for the sounds of the interstate through his open window, Cartman by his side—it wasn’t so bad.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked for the umpteenth time.

Cartman had been generally quiet, save for his obnoxious slurping. The straw bounced off his teeth. “I’m better,” he said. “This milkshake’s really good.”

“Take a nap,” Kenny suggested. “We still got a ways to go.”

“I don’t _wanna_.”

Kenny lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Uh—” Cartman set the milkshake in a cup holder and cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m not tired.”

“Whatcha wanna do, then?”

Cartman cracked his pack of Camels, flipped his Zippo open. The top clasped shut and echoed all around the cabin. “I thought perhaps we could hold a conversation.”

“About what?”

“Fuck, Kenny.” Cartman violently ashed his cigarette. “I don’t know. When the hell did we ever get so bad at _talking_ to each other?”

“I think we’ve always been pretty bad at it,” Kenny said. He grinned around the emblazoned filter between his lips. “Or maybe my good looks are just putting you at a loss for words.”

“Oh, I’ve got words for you,” Cartman said. “I’ve got _monologues_.”

“Romantic ones, I hope.”

“More like expositions of unbridled rage and contempt.”

“So your version of romantic.”

Cartman actually laughed. “Yeah, I fucking suppose.”

Quiet fell, but not nearly as uncomfortable. They each finished their cigarettes, then immediately lit another. To make up for lost time.

“I’ve got a hot topic,” Kenny lobbed.

“What’s that?” Cartman prompted.

“Kyle and Butters are dating.”

“Holy fucking _bovine._ No shit?”

“No shit.”

“When did Kyle tell you that?”

Kenny’s foot stuttered on the gas pedal. “Uh—last week. We had lunch at Raisins.”

“I’ll be damned,” Cartman said. “That’s wild. Good for them.”

“You really think so?” Kenny asked.

“Alphas and omegas belong together. It’s the most stable combination.”

“Oh.” Kenny buried the pain which lanced through his chest. He’d been a fool to drop his guard; Cartman always shanked him without even intending to.

“Besides,” Cartman added, “Kyle needs somebody to boss around. Butters is perfect for him.”

“I let you boss me around,” Kenny said.

“And if you were an omega, we’d be perfect,” Cartman said.

The wheel creaked in Kenny’s hand. He braced it with his knee and lit a third cigarette. “You can’t expect me to be something I’m not,” he said, tossing the pack on the dashboard. “That’s how I was born. I thought we worked out all right despite it.”

“Except for the myriad of problems which plagued our sex life,” Cartman countered.

Kenny reclaimed the wheel. “That was all in your head, Eric. We had good sex until you started getting nervous about it.”

Cartman ashed his cigarette again, right in the car. “I had reason to be nervous, Kenny. I’m thirty years old and I still haven’t presented as the alpha I was born to be. Your beta genes turned my reproductive system retarded. Shit like that happens. I read about it.”

“Where, though? Some incel website?”

“A _medical_ journal.”

“Bull-motherfucking-shit, man. I wanna see who wrote that. Probably some jilted bastard with a grudge.”

“It was sponsored by a respected institution. I won’t bore you with the details. Your creative, idealistic brain is incapable of understanding hard facts and logic.”

“All I’m saying is we went at it like rabbits. And then one day you just up and said no more. It was some great fucking sex, too. You can’t tell me different. Didn’t matter to me how—you wanna top forever now? Is that it?” Kenny turned, his voice raising. “You all insecure with your masculinity? You want me chained and collared? Say the word, Eric, and I’ll get on my knees. Letcha piss in my mouth.”

Cartman pointed through the windshield. “You’re drifting into the other lane, jackass.”

“Goddamn it.” Kenny wrenched the truck straight. Cigarette ash lobbed off and landed on his dick. He let it burn through his slacks. He hoped his entire penis would melt off and save them all this trouble.

“It wasn’t about _topping_ ,” Cartman said. “Give me some credit.”

“I’ve given you enough credit,” Kenny said. “I’ve given you more credit than anybody in their right mind ought to give a person as mean as you.”

“If you want to talk about _credit_ , how about the credit I gave your addicted ass, huh?” Cartman demanded. “You fucking lowlife piece of shit. You went to rehab _five_ fucking times. You should’ve been euthanized—like a mutt at the pound. But no! I fucking rehabilitated you.”

“Shut up, man. Shut the hell up.”

“Remember when you were detoxing? When I’d braid your hair back while you puked in the toilet night after night? I didn’t have to do that!”

“Eric, I swear to God. I’m gonna pull over and whoop your ass if you don’t shut the hell up!”

“Go ahead, you redneck! Fulfill your destiny! Walk in your father’s footsteps! I’ll charge you with domestic abuse and take all your goddamn money!”

The pickup caterwauled into the interstate’s gravel shoulder. Kenny slammed the brakes. The cigarettes on the dashboard hit the windshield, the cigarette in his mouth fell and started burning the carpeted cabin floor.

Cartman’s seatbelt rippled and clacked above his shoulder. “You wanna go, Kenny? You want a fucking fight?”

“No, I don’t wanna fight, Eric! I’m sick of fighting with you!”

“Whoa—hey—Are you _crying_?”

“Yes I’m fucking crying,” Kenny yelled. He raked his palms down tear-tracked cheeks. “I fucking love you! I miss you—and I hate whenever we see each other we always end up _screaming—_ and—”

“Hey! Knock it off!” Cartman climbed into Kenny’s lap, pinned his wrists to the seat. “Stop crying, for God’s sake—”

“I _can’t_ ,” Kenny sobbed. “I can’t stop. I can’t stop loving you.”

“Oh, my God,” Cartman groaned, “quit being so _dramatic_.”

“Don’t you love me too? I know it! I know you do!”

“Of course I love you, you fucking moron!”

Kenny stilled. “You do?”

“Yes,” Cartman said. “Why do you think I _left_?”

“I dunno! You told me to get lost. No note—no goodbye—nothing.”

“Oh.” Cartman leaned back against the wheel. “Yeah.”

Kenny slurped all his snot and spit into his mouth. “Why’d you leave me?”

“I wasn’t—I wasn’t leaving you,” Cartman said. “I was _sparing_ you.”

“Sparing me from what?”

Cartman twisted away, refusing to answer.

“Eric,” Kenny begged. He wrapped his arms around Cartman’s expansive midsection, soft and warm as he remembered. “Baby, c’mon. Tell me. What was it?”

“You’re _smothering_ me—” Cartman rolled off Kenny’s lap, sprawled in the middle seat. “Fucking hell, Kenny. I never wanted you to know, okay?”

Kenny gripped his hand so he wouldn’t put any more distance between them. “Know _what_? Do you have _cancer_ or something?”

“I wish!”

Cartman picked up Kenny’s amputated cigarette and re-lit the cherry. He didn’t speak until he got to the filter, which he smashed into Kenny’s clothed thigh; a whimper burbled out of Kenny’s throat—but he liked it. At this point he’d let Cartman shove a stick of dynamite up his ass and ignite the fuse, so long as Cartman gave him a kiss before he exploded.

Cartman smoothed the burn with his palm. All his apologies delivered too little, too late. “I’ll tell you. But don’t interrupt. Don’t say a single fucking word.”

“I won’t,” Kenny promised. “You can duct tape my mouth, even.”

“You’re just dying to get flogged, huh?” Cartman asked. “Anastasia’s a pretty shitty dominatrix, is she?”

Most people would think Cartman was procrastinating getting to his point. Kenny knew he was just warming up to it. “She’s awful,” he said. “She was such an alpha about it. All spice. No sugar. There wasn’t any payoff.”

Cartman thumbed the inside of his thigh. “I bet you took it, just to prove you could. She left you in a shivering mess, probably.”

Kenny’s leg tensed under Cartman’s hand. “Yeah.”

“You’re such a sadist. But you’re a delicate little thing, too. I bet nobody knew what to do with you.”

“Nobody but you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What about your hookers?” Kenny asked. “How were they?”

“Trash,” Cartman said. “Pure trash. They weren’t cheap, either. I got some real nice escorts. It’s their _job_. They did whatever the hell I wanted—no fight. Very professional. I was so bored.”

“I bet.”

“Anyway,” Cartman said. “Anyway, uh, well. Do you remember before I left? You have permission to speak.”

“What do you mean?” Kenny asked.

“I’m talking about the _events_ leading up to it,” Cartman clarified. “We just wrapped up that gig in Albuquerque. You wanted to go hiking, remember? In the desert.”

Memory of sun-bleached canyons buoyed in Kenny’s frontal lobe. He unboxed a French easel and whipped out some plein air landscapes at the top of a stone peak.

“It was really pretty,” Kenny said. “I got some good paintings out of it.”

“It was _torture_ ,” Cartman contested; he bitched about the heat in between glugs of water, face pasty with sunscreen beneath the brim of a curtained hat. “I _passed_ out. Remember?”

“Oh,” Kenny said. “Yeah. That also happened.”

Cartman massaged his leg, a repetitive motion Kenny doubted he was conscious of. “Well, uh. It wasn’t because of the desert.”

Kenny frowned. “What was it, then?”

“Fuck,” Cartman sighed. “Fucking—okay. Alright. Okay. Jesus, this is hard.”

“Eric—” Kenny chanced a side-glance at Cartman’s frustrated reservation. “We’re married. We made vows. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Cartman met his gaze. “I’m an omega,” he said.

Kenny didn’t move. He didn’t blink. A thousand questions and contradictions swarmed his head. He ignored them all, and listened.

“I went into heat,” Cartman continued. His grip became painful. “For the _first_ fucking time. That’s why I fainted. I shouldn’t have been out anywhere, let alone the New Mexico _desert_. That’s why I blew you off at the hotel, too—told you to go home by yourself. I figured out what was happening and didn’t want you to see. I didn’t want it to get worse, either. If you weren’t around it went away on its own.”

Kenny waited. When a sufficient length of time had passed, he asked, “Why?”

“Why, what?”

“What about the stuff you told Stan and Wendy? And me—tonight? And everything? Always saying you’re an alpha?”

“Oh, that. That was an elaborate ploy. An expertly woven diversion tactic.”

“You _lied_ to me? For _months_? You wanted to get divorced over a _lie_?”

“I wanted to get divorced because I didn’t want you to see me like that!”

Cartman slid to the passenger door and snatched another Camel. Kenny lit a Marlboro. The only method by which he could look at Cartman now was to observe his inverted reflection in the windshield. Separated by a wall of smoke and mirrors, as always.

“I stayed in Albuquerque for a week,” Cartman said. “Locked myself in a motel and sweat it out. Like a damn Indian shaman.”

Kenny shut his eyes against a picture of Cartman miserable and sick and alone. “You should’ve told me.”

“And what?” Cartman asked. “Have you see me omega crazy?”

“I already _knew_ , dude,” Kenny said. “Not back then—but tonight.”

Cartman coughed on an inhale. “You—how?”

“Anastasia.”

“You let that bitch _scent_ me?”

“She just picked up on it.” Kenny braced his palm on the open space between them, leaned forward. “It’s happening again, isn’t it? Right now?”

Cartman nodded.

“And you went to the show anyway,” Kenny said. “Knowing I’d be there.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Cartman said. He singed half of his cigarette’s paper casing off, hauled smoke out the window. “I’ve been a mess. I can’t fucking sleep. Those hookers’ cycles must’ve fucked with mine. I just—I don’t know. I wanted a break. I wanted to see you.”

Kenny inched closer. “But what do you _need_?”

“I _need_ to not be a mutant. I’m _thirty_ , Kenny, and I feel like a thirteen year old hitting puberty. This isn’t _right_. I always kept waiting, you know? I mean, honestly. I really should be an alpha.”

“It’s not a horoscope, dude,” Kenny said, trying for brevity. “It’s not a personality test. It’s your body. You can be an alpha in the streets and an omega in the sheets. I won’t tell.”

Cartman snapped a smoking fist. Kenny scuttled backwards. “This isn’t a joke!”

“Okay! Okay, I’m sorry.” Kenny discarded his cigarette over his shoulder, extended both hands palms-out. “Just relax.”

“I can already feel it infecting my mind. It’s like a _virus_.”

“Drink some more of your milkshake. I put heat suppressants in it.”

Cartman grabbed the milkshake and took an inquisitive sip. “I knew it tasted chalky.”

Kenny tried moving in again, pressed their shoulders together when Cartman did not retaliate physically or verbally. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to,” he said. “I can take you home and help you out. Or drop you off at your place. Whatever you want.”

“And what’ll happen when we get home?” Cartman asked. Kenny’s heart skipped a beat at the lack of differentiation between _his_ house and _home_. “You’re gonna brainwash me with your dick. I’ll be a sentient cocksleeve. No offense, but I’m not putting myself at anybody’s mercy. Not even yours.”

Kenny had to laugh. The Styrofoam crinkled in Cartman’s fist; Kenny assuaged him with a gentle titty grope. “That’s not gonna happen. When did you ever _submit_ to me before? Even if you’re in heat, I don’t think that’ll ever happen.”

“I guess.”

“Calm down for a second and _think_ about it. I’m not an alpha. I’m a beta. I’m passive. I don’t have a backbone. Like you always told me.” Kenny fingered the gap between Cartman’s shirt buttons, the material and skin underneath drenched in perspiration. “It’s not gonna be like some raunchy porno. I’m not gonna beef up go ape-shit. And _you_ aren’t gonna turn into some little crybaby bitch. It’ll be chill.”

Cartman dropped his head on Kenny’s shoulder, indulged in his medicated milkshake and cigarette back-to-back. “This is the least chill thing I’ve ever been through.”

“Good thing you got me,” Kenny murmured into his crown.

Cartman answered with a begrudging grin. “Sure.”

Kenny enjoyed a whiff of his musk—it wasn’t honeysuckle and rosewater, but peppery cologne and salty sweat.

“Kenny,” Cartman said.

Kenny hummed.

“I just pissed myself.”

Kenny shot upward. “What?”

The blush returned to Cartman’s face brighter than ever before. “Not _literally_. But.”

“Oh, fuck.” Kenny computed the implication easy enough. He reached into the backseat and pulled the gas station groceries into his lap. “I got these,” he said, proffering the box of pads.

Cartman’s blush intensified. “You might as well have bought me adult fucking diapers!”

“Kyle told me to get ‘em.”

“Per Butters’ advice, probably. Great. I’m officially in the same demographic as Leopold Stotch.”

“Do you wanna have swamp ass the entire drive home, or what?”

“ _Fine_ —” Cartman disposed of his cigarette, traded his milkshake for the box. He didn’t forbid Kenny from watching him undress, which was a good sign. The designer slacks peeled off his body wet and unwilling, revealing a pair of Calvins stained with a huge dark spot. “Help me up,” he huffed.

Kenny knelt across the middle console, spine contorted underneath the cabin ceiling. Cartman braced an arm around his shoulder and shucked his boxers down his thighs. They clung to his skin by a glistening spiderweb. Discharge, Kyle so clinically called it. Otherwise known as slick.

“Shit,” Cartman whimpered. Cold air continued spilling in through the open windows, iced his viscuous junk.

“Hurry up, baby,” Kenny said. “Everybody can see your ass.”

“ _Good_ ,” Cartman said.

There was omega specific underwear built to withstand biological occurrences such as these. Cartman’s Calvins lacked any accommodations. He awkwardly adhered the pad’s wings to the slippery fabric, hiked the hem high over his bellybutton; an extra Urkel-esque security measure.

He sat down, wrestled his Gucci oxfords free of his pants. “I’m not putting those back on.”

“I’ve got an afghan in the back,” Kenny said, resuming his position behind the wheel.

“Allah akbar?” Cartman called. “I don’t see any Afghanis, dude.”

Kenny grabbed the blanket himself, threw it over Cartman’s naked lap. “Here.”

Cartman frowned. “Is this the one my mom made you?”

“I keep it for the winter. The heating sucks.”

“I know. I’ve suffered many a drive in this rust bucket.”

“Hey—this old maid’s seen us through alotta good times. And road head. Show some respect.”

“Stop talking,” Cartman ordered. “I’m going to sleep.”

He hunkered down with his milkshake and blanket, eventually nodded off once the empty Styrofoam cup rolled out of his hand. Kenny pet his flank to quiet his unconscious snorts and sighs. The pickup soldiered fifteen miles over the speed limit. Cartman woke up half an hour out of the boonies.

“Are we close?” he asked.

“Thirty minutes, baby.” Kenny’s spindly fingers caught on the afghan's netting. “We’re almost there.”

“I feel awful.”

Cartman didn’t say it pissed off and bitchy, but under his breath. A confession, not an accusation. Kenny pressed down on the gas pedal. South Park’s welcome sign came into view soon after. _Population: a bunch of suckers._

There was something to be said about coming home. Even if you hated it, the domesticity set your instincts at ease. Back roads blueprinted in your brain. As of late the comfort had been tarnished with a considerable lack of a certain individual. But tonight the mountains shorned the scar tissue off Kenny’s heart rather than callous him further.

His citadel loomed through the sticks. They bought the old farmhouse with their first quarter million, gutted the interior and left its entrails exposed for aesthetic purposes. Wildflowers and weeds spawned protected by a balustrade of pine trees. Cartman had demanded they pave a driveway to cushion his ever-changing sportscar of the month; Kenny compromised, retaining a sliver of gravel for himself. He didn’t want to forget where he came from.

“We’re home,” he announced.

Cartman peeked out of his cocoon and stared at the house. He hadn’t stepped foot in the place for almost two months. Kenny bundled all their shit in the gas station bag, hopped out and opened his door.

Cartman allowed him to escort him onto the porch but stopped short of the front door, standing there in his ridiculous shoes and ridiculous suit jacket and moist, bulging Calvins.

“Eric,” Kenny said. “Do you want to leave?”

“It’s different, is all,” Cartman said.

“How?”

“I dunno. Feels different.”

“Like what?”

“Like I can smell all the bitches you’ve been parading around _my_ house.”

“Uh—what?”

Cartman retrieved his keys from his jacket, unlocked the door. He circuited the foyer sparsely decorated with giant movie posters and funky, esoteric knickknacks Kenny collected. “It reeks.”

Kenny recalled what Kyle told him about territory. “I think it’s probably a heat thing? This is all under my radar, dude.”

“A nuclear apocalypse would fly under your radar.”

“You can piss on everything later to reestablish your authority. What’s the plan right now?”

Cartman returned a scaled Dukes of Hazzard Charger model to its perch beside a cow skull. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“To our bedroom?” Kenny asked. “Much as I wanna break it in again, I don’t wanna deal with the mess.”

“Obviously not,” Cartman said, circumventing the second story entirely. “Your studio’s still a pigsty, I take it?”

Kenny lagged a couple paces behind. “It’s the only way I can work.”

Cartman opened the door. “Goddamn, Kenny. I’m cleaning this place out the second I’m no longer indisposed.” He stomped towards the blood-snow canvas on the floor. “What’s this mess?”

Kenny dropped the plastic sack at the threshold and joined him. “Nothing.”

“It’s shit.”

“Anastasia tried telling me it has potential.”

“She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. It’s garbage. It’s so uninformed. You can do better.”

“I’ve been uninspired.”

Cartman scanned the rest of the cluttered studio. His gaze fell on the half-finished nudes stacked against the opposite wall. He walked directly across the canvas and flicked through them. “What’re these?”

“All my bitches. You can throw ‘em out.”

“And waste material? Just tear it off and re-stretch the canvas. Jesus—” Cartman carelessly dropped the paintings. “How have you survived without me?”

Kenny strolled forward and hugged him from behind. “I haven’t. I’m a wreck. I’m hopeless—”

Cartman spun around, rose on his tiptoes, and swallowed the rest of Kenny’s romantic monologue.

Kenny held onto his indiscernible jaw, jellied knees close to breaking. “Eric,” he breathed.

Two big hands clutched his hips—his back slammed into the white brick wall. All his concubines clattered face-down. Cartman fisted his hair, yanked hard, and chomped his jugular vein. Kenny canted his head back to give him more skin to work with, scrabbled at his shirt buttons and popped them off, finally.

They were pressed so tight he could only unleash Cartman’s upper torso, which oozed red-hot and steaming. Gucci shoes clacked onto the floor behind them; Kenny barely registered the noise, too caught up in Cartman’s snarls. He sank lower and lower until they were both sprawled on the floor, his body pressurized under Cartman’s heft.

Cartman rammed their foreheads together. Kenny reached up and wiped the spit off Cartman’s chin—Cartman lathed his thumb, so he diverted course and fish-hooked the inside of Cartman’s cheek, revealing a row of professionally whitened teeth. Slobber ran down his sleeve. “Let’s get naked,” he said.

“Catch up to speed, princess.”

“You gotta get offa me first.”

“Huh? Oh.” Cartman blinked—the fuzz left his pupils. He crawled off Kenny’s lap and started divesting the rest of his clothes.

Kenny might’ve been a beta, but the scent of Cartman’s slick made his brain whirl, anyway. He froze, sweater tangled over his head, slacks at his shins. Cartman finished stripping him. He flipped his hair back and was bequeathed with the sight of Cartman’s rock hard cock dribbling pre-cum, slick geysering out of his ass onto the paint-flecked floorboards.

“Kenny! Get it together.”

“Right—” Kenny dragged his eyes up. “What next?”

“ Futon,” Cartman said. 

They stumbled  to the futon positioned in front of the  massive  windows.  They  used to sit for hours and  watch the mountains,  a staring contest the mountains always won.  Cigarette burns interspersed stains of bodily and alcohol ic origins polka-dotting the bare mattress.  It hailed from Cartman’s basement—a shrine to the history of their roller coaster relationship.

Cartman flopped on his side,  then his back, then his front . Kenny stayed vertical above him, mildly perturbed. “What’re you doing?” 

“Trying to get  _ comfortable _ ,” Cartman said. He landed belly-down and grunted into the mattress. “This sucks.”

“You’re nesting,” Kenny  realized . 

Cartman looked over his shoulder. “I’m  _ what _ ?” 

“Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Paint cans collided with Kenny’s ankles. He barely managed to stay upright, fumbling backwards out of the studio. “I got an idea. Hold on.”

He ran into  his bedroom buck naked, half a chub wagging between  his legs , and ducked into the closet.  He piled random articles of clothing over his forearm, then squatted at the bottom of a dresser where he kept some things Cartman had overlooked in his hurried departure.  He considered grabbing the comforter off the bed,  too —but no, Cartman would smell Anastasia and Bartholomew  and all the others that had failed to fill his absence. 

White cotton snagged  Kenny’s peripheral vision. He dropped his armful of clothes and went back  in to the closet. A  thriftstore shift hung all by itself sad and lonely. Kenny tore it off the hanger and put it on. 

The studio’s cold floorboards bit his feet upon return. “I’m back,” he  said . 

Cartman rolled over. “What’s that for?”

Kenny dropped their clothes onto the futon, revealing his costume.  Its flimsy cap sleeves flounced down his bony shoulders; the skirt barely reached his thighs, shortened by his  burgeoning erection. “Thought it’d help.”

“Huh.” Cartman nabbed one of Kenny’s flannels, held it to his chest. “Nice dress.”

“ Thought it’d help, too.” 

“Considering you wore it on our wedding night.” Cartman hooked his foot around the back of Kenny’s knee and pulled him down. “C’mere.”

Kenny surrendered to his side. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Cartman gave Kenny the flannel. “Rub this on your junk a little. I yearn for your stank.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Am I?”

“I could just splooge up your nose,” Kenny offered as he jammed the flannel against his crotch.

“Yeah, spoon feed me your smegma, sweetheart.” Cartman took the flannel back and thoughtfully positioned it under his head, then gave Kenny another shirt. Soon they were haloed in a ring of rank clothes.

“What now?” Kenny asked.

“I guess we fuck.”

“Yeah? You want to?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Kenny straddled Cartman’s stomach and pressed him into the mattress. “How’s that feel?”

“Like nothing. Like you weigh ninety pounds. Have you been eating at all?”

“Mostly cigarettes and beer.”

“It’s amazing you’re still alive.”

“I miss your casserole.”

“I’ll call my mother and ask for the recipe after my asshole stops leaking.” Cartman slid his hands under Kenny’s dress and cupped his serrated hipbones. “All those hookers—they were even more anorexic than you. Creeped me the fuck out.”

“Well,” Kenny said, reclining into Cartman’s bent thighs, “none of my models got any meat on ‘em. Nothing to hold on to.”

“I could bench press your whole body,” Cartman said. His palms encompassed the entirety of Kenny’s concave abdomen. “I could pick you up and throw you out the window.”

Kenny reached down and fingered his cock. “How’re you so conversational? Kyle said you should be nonverbal.”

“Maybe that’s how Butters operates—” Cartman’s eyelids fluttered at Kenny’s ministrations. “But—uh—”

“What’s that?”

“Fuck—I dunno.”

“You still feeling sick?” Kenny asked. He circled Cartman’s foreskin, guided his stumpy head out, and swiped his thumbnail through its weeping slit.

“Kinda,” Cartman squeaked.

Kenny’s hand paused. “How bad?”

“Not as bad as before—don’t _stop—_ ”

Kenny resumed, slow and patient, the cool silver of his wedding ring dragging along Cartman’s hot skin. If Cartman really wanted to he could piledrive Kenny into the futon and fuck himself. Instead he stroked his hands up and down Kenny’s thighs, undulated his hips to match Kenny’s pace.

“It’s not as bad,” he said. “With you.”

“Better than Albuquerque?” Kenny asked.

“Don’t even,” Cartman groaned. “I’m never going back there again. Thought I’d die.”

“I would’ve stayed, if I knew. I would’ve broke into your room and fucked you raw. Probably shoved a TV remote up your ass or something, didn’t you? Were you thinking about me?’

Cartman’s breath hitched. “Uh-huh.”

“What’d you think about?”

“You in this dress.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Thought about our wedding. Saw you all day in that tux, then you put _this_ on after. I mean—fuck. It should be _illegal_. You look good no matter what.”

“You look good too, babe,” Kenny said.

“Oh, please.”

“I mean it. The other night—at Skeeter’s—you were killing me. You put on that cologne I like.”

“I did it on purpose.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re an asshole.”

“Speaking of, can we stop talking?”

“Why? Don’tcha wanna catch up?”

“Don’t be a bitch. I’m fucking serious—it _hurts—_ ”

“Whoa, what?” Kenny let go. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” Cartman whined. His flabby chest broke out in a flushed sweat. “Everything hurts.”

Kenny pet his overheated face. “Where? What is it?”

“Everywhere. I’m on fire.”

“Poor baby. You got it bad, huh?”

Cartman’s lips parted with a strangled moan moan. “Kenny.”

“It’s okay. It’s alright. C’mon—up, up, up.”

Kenny slid off Cartman’s stomach and rearranged him on his side. Cartman immediately hid his face in the nest of Kenny’s flannels. Kenny rubbed his back, kissed the visible portion of his cheek.

“That’s it. You’re doing really good.”

“Stop _patronizing_ me.”

“I’m not,” Kenny murmured. For the first time in his whole life he broke past the surface of Cartman’s exterior dialogue, refusing to let Cartman pen his own delusional narrative. “I know this is hard,” he said. “I know you hate it.”

“I don’t _hate_ it, it’s just—”

Kenny caressed his jaw. “Tell me about it.”

Cartman furrowed his brow. “Huh?”

“How it feels,” Kenny said. “What you need.”

“Oh. Um—well—shit, I don’t know—”

Wishful thinking on Kenny’s part, to hope that Cartman would readily assume full disclosure. He checked Cartman’s warm forehead. “Still got a headache?”

“Uh, yeah.”

Kenny humphed contemplatively; his hand traveled down to Cartman’s soft belly. “Still wanna throw up? I got some medicine at the gas station.”

“I don’t want to be _sedated,_ ” Cartman said. “It hurts, but—” He paused. Kenny kissed his cheek again. “I’m probably, like… _ovulating_ ,” he muttered.

Kenny’s heart stopped. “Fuck. I didn’t even—I didn’t even _think_ about that—”

“The odds are low,” Cartman interjected. “This is already so fucked up, who knows if I’m _fertile—_ ”

“You _could_ be,” Kenny said. The implications were astounding. “I mean—right?”

“Don’t get any ideas. I’m not fathering any children with you until we’ve had _extensive_ marriage counseling.”

“You wanna have _kids_?”

“I dunno,” Cartman sighed, “this heat’s got me all paternal. Makes me wanna preserve my bloodline. Spawn some progeny. That’s the whole _point_ , isn’t it?”

Kenny ducked his head under Cartman’s chin, hiding a giddy smile. “If you want it to be.”

“Maybe when we’re both mentally stable. You’d really wanna?”

“Yes, dude— _yes—_ ”

Kenny captured Cartman’s mouth with his. He couldn’t believe Cartman was back home, let alone discussing their future _children_ —

Cartman eased apart. “Slow down, sugar. We got time.”

“What about tonight?” Kenny asked, digging deeper into Cartman’s potential baby-making machine. “Should I get—condoms? Or something?”

“Absolutely _not_ ,” Cartman declined. “I don’t even know if it’s a possibility yet. I’ll take some morning-after shit just in case. I’m sure you’ve got a whole stockpile under the bathroom sink, don’tcha? And if that doesn’t work, we got coat hangers at least.”

“Eric!” Kenny kissed him again, this time to shut him up. “Don’t _say_ that. I don’t even wanna _think_ about that—”

“Okay, okay.” Cartman thumbed Kenny’s bottom lip in consolation. “It was a _joke_. Lighten up, sweetheart.”

“It wasn’t funny,” Kenny pouted. “I’ll get you as many abortions as you _want_ , but don’t make ‘em DIY!”

“Kenny.” Cartman scooped him into his arms. “What’re you nervous for?”

“I dunno,” Kenny sniffed. He melted in Cartman’s plump embrace. “I just—I just got you back, and you’re in pain, and it makes me sad, and now you’re talking about fishing an _embryo_ outta your ass—”

“I’ll drop the abortion stuff,” Cartman promised. “Forget about the whole kid thing entirely. Whoops—it’s gone.” He fluttered his fingers in the air, then returned his hand to the back of Kenny’s head. “Filed it away. Done deal. Forget about it.”

Kenny hiccuped a laugh. “Okay.”

“As for my physical _agony_ , well—it’s not the worst. It’s not like I broke my legs. It’s not there for no reason. It serves a purpose, right? It’s a good kinda pain.” Cartman dug his nails into Kenny’s scalp. “Like when you want me to throw you around, yeah?”

“Mmmm,” Kenny intoned. Nobody knew how to hurt him like his husband.

Cartman caught on to his sick satisfaction and started picking a gouge in his skin, deliberately trying to draw blood. “See? You freak. You get it.”

“At this point I think I’m more anxious than you are,” Kenny admitted. He’d always been amazed at how Cartman could strong-arm himself out of any given situation—he had the mental discipline of a Tibetan monk, and the motives of a special operative. “You’ve come to terms pretty fast.”

“Doesn’t look like I have much of a choice,” Cartman said. He flicked the blood that had congealed under his thumbnail. “Anyway, my whole problem was with you.”

Kenny frowned; the open wound on his head kept him clear. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

“You didn’t,” Cartman affirmed. “But it was the whole concept of you—and me—like _this—_ ” His ass spurted another gush of slick to prove his point. He grimaced and wormed his nose into Kenny’s shoulder. “It’s embarrassing—and, you know—all the other stuff I told you in the car.”

“Baby,” Kenny said. “You’ve seen me way worse. I was dope sick in your basement for months. Puking and shitting all over the place. Remember when you _bathed_ me because I couldn’t stand up on my own?”

Yeah. I’d do it all over again, too.”

“You would?”

“What, you think I want you _dead_?” Cartman lifted up over Kenny, countenance firm. “If you get into any of that shit again I’ll kill you myself.”

“I haven’t,” Kenny swore. “I won’t. You got me off of it.”

“That’s the _problem_.”

“Huh?”

“Ugh.”

Cartman kerplunked on top of Kenny—Kenny squawked, limbs and organs squashed to accommodate two-hundred plus pounds of sexy, sweltering fat.

“I’m gonna get real psychological with you,” Cartman told him. “Seeing as I have already made a fool of myself.”

Kenny wiggled his upper body free, lungs expanding in a relieved exhale. Cartman’s head landed on his stomach; Kenny shoveled his bedraggled bangs off his forehead to reveal a constipated glower.

“I’m listening.”

“The whole composition of our relationship is based on the fact that you’re a mess and I’m the one who’s gotta cobble you together,” Cartman began. “Even when we were kids. Then when you were addicted. Then when you got all hoity-toity.”

Kenny scowled. “I’m not hoity-toity.”

“It’s an expression,” Cartman said. “I’m speaking in general terms. You’re a hick in sheep’s clothing, I know. That’s why I gotta chart you through cultured waters.”

“I guess,” Kenny relented. “I was dying tonight. At the gallery. Then you showed up, and—”

“Saved your ass, yes. Like always.”

“So what’s your point?”

“My point is I’ve got a _job_ to do, and I can’t do it if I’m fucking— _ail_ _ed_.”

“Are you, though? You’ve held it together pretty well. Consider my expectations subverted.”

“Thank you. But I’m not talking about the specifics. I’m talking about the principle of it.”

“The principle of what? I already know you have to be in charge of everything, all the time.”

“This is beyond that,” Cartman said. He lowered his face into Kenny’s dress. “I don’t—do this. I’m not a _vulnerable_ person, Kenny. But all I want right now is for you to flay me alive.”

Kenny clasped his fingers at the nape of Cartman’s neck, held him close. “Maybe that’s how we got here in the first place. Maybe you should be vulnerable more often. To be fair, I didn’t really leave much room for it, with all my problems.”

“Maybe.”

“And besides—I’m not gonna _flay_ you alive. Emotions don’t work like that. It’s, like, sharing. Not stealing.”

“Okay.”

Obviously Cartman wasn’t convinced. Kenny prodded his side. He took the hint and rolled onto his back. Kenny shuffled down the futon till his toes touched the floor and framed Cartman’s jaw, slotted their lips together. Cartman promptly liquefied.

“Kenny,” he gasped.

“Shut up already,” Kenny whispered. He pressed his knee between Cartman’s legs. Wet secretions smudged his thigh, dampened the hem of his dress. “Stop over-thinking this. Just feel it. It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. You don’t gotta worry. I’ll fix you up. Everything’ll go back to normal in the morning.”

Cartman grit his teeth. “Okay. Okay—just—”

At a loss for words, he dove in for another kiss. Kenny indulged him for a bit, then pulled off with a muted pop and rose onto his knees. “Want me to keep my dress on?”

“Yeah,” Cartman said.

Kenny hooked his hands under Cartman’s armpits, encouraging him to shuffle up further on the mattress. “It’s like we’re renewing our vows. Consummation.”

“I’d rather do it for real, now that we aren’t poor.” Cartman spread his legs; Kenny maneuvered into position. “Our wedding was fucking trashy.”

Their erections had flagged with all the talking. Kenny pumped both simultaneously. “We’ll serve caviar instead of chicken wings. I think I’ll wear a dress for the second round. Something that costs fifteen thousand dollars. And a tiara.”

“We gotta do it the same time Wendy and Stan get married. Really piss ‘em off. Make ‘em jealous.”

“Nobody’ll show up to their wedding, ‘cause the real party’s with us.”

“Yep. Oh—Christ—”

Kenny raised his eyebrows, palpating Cartman’s ass cheeks now that they were back at full mast. “You finally gonna shut the fuck up? You finally gonna let me get a move on?”

Cartman nodded, nostrils flared, pupils blown wide.

“See? It ain’t too difficult...”

Kenny thumbed the inflamed rim of Cartman’s asshole, hot as the Pacific volcanic belt. Slick squelched out and poured down his hand. He’d tell Kyle all about it. Victimize him to a whole play-by-play for doubting Cartman’s discharge production. His index finger slipped in to the last knuckle easy as pie. Cartman yelped; his knees knocked against Kenny’s sides. Kenny held onto his meaty thigh for purchase, inserted another finger, then a third when Cartman made no attempt to slow him down.

“That’s it, baby,” he said. “That’s real nice. Just lay down and saddle up. I got you.”

“You could expedite the process,” Cartman offered. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

Kenny was inclined to draw it out for all the backtalk, but he was a little impatient himself. Maybe next month they could screw around, assuming Cartman’s heats weren’t thirty years apart. If not, Kenny would still bone him at sixty.

He hiked his skirt and grasped his cock. “Three, two, one,” he counted, then slid right in—and immediately knew this wouldn’t last very long.

Cartman vacuumed him up, inner walls wet and pulsating. His prostate was ballooned past its usual size, near cancerous; Kenny clipped it by mistake. Cartman _seized_ , eyes rolling into the back of his head, hands twisting the flannel surrounding them.

More slick coated Kenny’s dick, dripped down his balls. “You’re really—you’re really in it, huh? This is crazy.”

Cartman gurgled something incendiary. Kenny spit the flyway strands of hair out of his mouth, redoubled his grip on Cartman’s thighs, and jerked his hips experimentally. Cartman panted, speechless, face screwed up in equal parts pain and pleasure.

Kenny folded his torso in half, forcing himself even deeper. Cartman’s eyes flew open—Kenny kissed the last dregs of his fearful distress away.

“Bite me,” Cartman gasped.

Kenny’s brow pinched. “Huh? Why?”

“’Cause I _want_ you to. Don’t question my instincts!”

“Alright!”

Kenny mouthed the sweat glistening at the junction between Cartman’s neck and shoulder, reared his hips, and slammed back into Cartman’s ass the same time he dug his teeth in.

“Shit, yeah,” Cartman growled. “C’mon, you fucking bitch!”

The verbal jab went right to Kenny’s dick. He straightened and grabbed Cartman’s substantive love handles: lips parted, eyes half-lidded, hair hanging loose over his shoulders, so lost in the sauce he forgot his main objective.

Cartman anchored him, entwining their fingers. “Hey, sweetheart—don’t get all spacey _now_.”

“Sorry,” Kenny said. “Uh, ‘m just, uh...”

He chuffed at the sensation of Cartman squeezing him from the inside out. “You’re what? You’re a goddamn loser, is that what you were gonna say?”

“Sure,” Kenny heaved, beginning to drip drool and snot and tears. “I’m a loser. I’m a total idiot. I’m a moron.”

“Yeah, you are,” Cartman laughed. “Hurry it up. I don’t got all night.”

“I’m dead without you,” Kenny rambled. “I’m nobody. My money, my job, it’s all yours. Everything.”

He halfheartedly pistoned his hips, barely conscious. It was easier to talk big than play the game. He’d never been as razor-focused as Cartman. He was an airhead, constantly lost in the stratosphere. Cartman went down to the core of the Earth—surfacing only to snip all his threads. Under the dark scorn of his amused indignation, Kenny’s conviction crumbled to nothing.

His thrusts quickened with his heartbeat and shuddering breath. A ribbon of slick tethered him to Cartman’s ass; he was never gone long or far enough for it to break. Cartman’s thighs clenched around his waist, buried him to the hilt. His dick ignited. There wasn’t any room to snuff out the flames. They sprinted up the fuse routed through Kenny’s spine, exploded behind his eyes. He folded his chin to his clavicle, let his hair curtain his bawlbagging.

Saliva repelled down his bottom lip and landed on Cartman’s cock. “Whoa—” Cartman squeezed his hands. “Princess, don’t cry. I didn’t want you to _cry_. I’m playing around. I’m kidding.”

“I know, I know—I just missed you so damn much—”

Kenny stabbed Cartman’s grapefruit prostate by accident. Cartman’s spine locked in a rigid arc; his hands cut off the circulation in Kenny’s wrists. Kenny kept crying through his climax, emptying his jizz and heart and soul into Cartman’s ass.

“I’m done. I’m out—I can’t—”

His dick slipped out wet and sore and swollen. Cartman scooted back, animalistic fever replaced by a sated haze. Kenny collapsed into his chest, humped his thigh to quell the aftershocks of his orgasm.

Cartman wound his fingers in Kenny’s hair, exacerbated the congealed scab on his scalp. The blossom of pain unlocked Kenny’s ribcage, evened his breathing.

“That’s it,” Cartman said. “Simmer down, sweetheart.”

“Sorry,” Kenny sniffled.

Cartman scraped more blood out of him. “What’re you apologizing for?”

“I did it again,” Kenny said. “Fucking—got all weird—” His toes bumped into Cartman’s boner. “Shit, I didn’t even finish you _off—_ ”

“It’s no big deal. It’s not gonna go away any time soon.” Cartman bent Kenny’s head back, kissed the snot off his mouth. “Relax. You’ve got the mental constitution of a deck of cards. I didn’t expect you to not lose your shit. It’s what you do. It’s actually comforting.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Means nothing’s different between us. Business as usual. Right outta the playbook. I didn’t lose my autonomy, you gave me all yours. Very gratifying.”

“Can you please stop talking smartass stuff?”

“Sorry. I forget how intelligent I am, at times.” Cartman dipped under the collar of Kenny’s dress and pet between his shoulder blades, like stroking a bird’s wings. “I’ll dumb it down for you. Everything’s as it should be. Quit feeling bad about giving me exactly what I needed. I’m all better now. I feel loads better.”

Kenny propped his chin on Cartman’s tit. “I just wanted to turn the tables, for once.”

Cartman scoffed. “We previously established that’s impossible. That’s what you told _me_. That’s not how we do things. I didn’t wanna turn any tables.”

“Okay. Are you still, like—hurting?”

“Not really.”

“How’s that work?”

“Hell, I dunno. Go ask Kyle. Maybe him and Butters can give you a live demonstration.”

“No thanks.”

Cartman grinned. “Good. That was a test. You shouldn’t be anywhere around those fools.” He pried Kenny off and sat up against the cold windows. “Now, y’wanna sit on my cock?”

“I mean, sure.”

“Oh, don’t act like it’s a huge _favor_. You don’t have to. But I’d appreciate it— _oof_!”

Kenny hopped into his lap, laced his wrists behind his shoulders. “I missed this. Got a husband for a recliner. It’s nice.”

“I’m sure it is,” Cartman huffed. His hand slithered past Kenny’s softened penis, in between his own ass cheeks. “All I got out of the transaction is a fucking _scarecrow_. Cuddling you is like spooning a box of nails.”

“ _Fuck_.” Kenny lurched at the feeling of warm slick on his asshole; Cartman worked him open, supporting his lower back. “Fuck, baby.”

“Yeah? You like that? All my sloppy seconds?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“It’s all you deserve, you fucking adulterer. That’s what you should paint next. A self-portrait with a big old A on your forehead—getting gangbanged by all those college kids—” Cartman whacked Kenny’s ass cheek with an open-palmed slap. “—fucking whore.”

The windowpane rattled and fogged under Kenny’s hands. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—it was stupid. I didn’t like any of ‘em. Just closed my eyes and pretended it was you.”

“How’d that work out for you?”

“Bad.”

“Aw, that’s okay.” Cartman dipped back into Kenny’s asshole. “I did the same exact thing. Went and screwed every blond in Colorado.”

Kenny braced his forehead on Cartman’s shoulder. Half his hair stuck to the steamy window, and the rest stuck to Cartman’s damp skin. “You did?”

“Yeah,” Cartman said, three fingers deep. “Nobody’s nasty as you. Nobody’s _interesting_ as you. Everybody’s one way or another. You got so many sides, you’re a Menger sponge.”

“I’m a _what_?”

“It’s a theoretical math thing. Bunch a cubes in one big cube. Infinite surface area. Zero volume.”

“Eric,” Kenny whined, grinding his hips down on Cartman’s hand. “ _Stop_ it.”

“Okay.” Cartman retracted from his ass completely. “There. I stopped.”

“Not that!”

“I’m kidding, sugar.” Cartman slipped one arm around Kenny’s waist and the other under Kenny’s ass, lifted him up like a little kid. “You ready for the main event?”

“Do I _look_ ready?”

“You look pretty.”

“Don’t act sweet. You’re faking.”

“I’m not, I promise.” Cartman shrugged Kenny’s hand off the window. “Help me out here.”

Cartman was still dispelling slick like a broken soda dispenser. Kenny cupped some in his palm and started beating him off.

“That’s nice, sweetheart,” Cartman sighed. “You were right. Back in the car. You’re too nice for me. I’m a bastard. I’ll admit it. Don’t know why you stuck around.”

“I don’t either, sometimes— _ahh—_ ” Cartman had rewarded a devious wrist flick with a pet to Kenny’s pucker. Kenny dropped boneless, landing in between Cartman’s cleavage; the arm around his waist was all that kept him from falling apart. “Eric—please, c’mon, man—”

“I know you’ve got more patience than this _._ I’ve strung you out for hours, before.”

“I’ve been strung out two fucking months!”

“Yeah, me too. Sit up. Look at me.” Kenny straightened. Cartman piled his hair behind his hunched shoulders. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” Kenny said.

Cartman smirked. “And here you go.”

He didn’t have much length, but his chode was fat as the rest of him. It speared Kenny’s ass blunt and wide. Kenny screwed his eyes shut, clutched his skirt; the fabric raked across his flaccid penis, which gave an exhausted wiggle. “Aw, man. Aw, man—”

“Don’t kill yourself.” Cartman batted Kenny’s hands away, flipped his skirt up, grasped his dick. “You’re finished, huh? Maybe not.”

A pearl of pre-cum beaded under Cartman’s thumb. Kenny gagged, over-stimulated, reflexively tensing around Cartman’s cock. “Fucking asshole— _oh,_ ow!”

Cartman released him. “Sorry! I’ll torture you later.”

“It’s not that. It’s your _dick_!”

“You don’t have to flatter me. We both know I’m low on the TMI scale.”

“No, I’m serious—” Kenny grappled Cartman’s shoulders, hugged him tight, tried getting some cold air off the windows to mitigate the sudden fire in his ass. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—Rob Schneider, Rob Schneider!”

Cartman’s eyes widened at their safeword. “Okay, okay, we’ll tap out, sweetheart, give me a second.”

He slung his hands under Kenny’s thighs and started pulling him off, nearly excavated his colon.

“Stop it! Stop!”

Kenny slumped back into Cartman’s lap, impaled further on the rough landing. Cartman slapped him a little to get his attention. “What do you want me to do? What’s wrong?”

Kenny moaned, tears slipping down his face.“I dunno. I just—fuck, I can’t _move—_ feels like a goddamn _knot—_ ”

They both froze.

“Holy shit,” Cartman said. “That’s not _possible_.”

“Well, it’s happening,” Kenny told him. “I know how your dick feels up my ass. This is different.”

“I didn’t even _notice_. I was too caught up screwing with you—but, yeah—it feels—nice, actually.”

“Oh, I’m glad you’re enjoying it!”

Cartman wiped Kenny’s tears, kissed him sweet and apologetic. “I’m sorry, princess. Is it really that bad?”

Now that Kenny had time to adjust—physically and mentally—it wasn’t awful. He shifted his hips, let out a slow breath. “No, I was just surprised. I’m getting used to it.”

“Good. ‘Cause I think we’re kind of locked in at this point.”

“We’ve been locked in since we got married.”

“Nah,” Cartman kissed him again, “it was way before that.”

Kenny smiled into his lips. “Yeah. It was.”

Cartman’s knot didn’t deflate until he’d creampied Kenny about six times. Kenny got reimbursed for his troubles with a malicious rimjob; naturally he repaid the favor. Once his bones solidified, he stumbled across the studio and got a wet rag from the dump sink. He washed Cartman’s ass and dick gentle as possible, but Cartman still mewled with discomfort, spent and expunged, finally at his limit. Kenny fed him gas station pills and cigarettes.

They laid side by side in a pool of jizz and sweat and slick, smoke wafting pictures overhead. Cartman fell asleep nestled into Kenny’s side. Kenny dug his left hand out and held onto his wedding ring, kissed his knuckles.

Consummation—yeah, right.

/

_One year and a half later_

“Isn’t this nice?” Cartman asked. “Brand new truck. Not even _used_. That’s what money’ll get you, Kenny. Look—” He switched between radio stations, worse than the car dealer. “Hear that? You can tear your ear drums to shreds in this thing, just how you like it. Bluetooth. We’re in the future.”

Kenny  cranked the volume down . “Would you shut the fuck up? I’m still mourning.” 

“Aw, sweetheart.” Cartman couldn’t shuffle closer—the truck had fancy bucket seats with bells and and butt warmers and whistles—so he simply reached across the middle console, tucked Kenny’s hair behind his ear. “I know your old ride was a McCormick family heirloom and all, but you’re not a McCormick anymore. You’re a Cartman. People need to know. It’s about time.” 

Kenny  brought his cigarette to his lips .  T he motion did not shake Cartman off as he’d hoped, and neither did the weaponized cloud of smoke.  “If people need to know I’m a Cartman  I should just gain a thousand pounds.” 

“Hey—” Cartman tugged his hair. “Coming from the Starvin’ Marvin. A little meat on your bones would do you some good.”

“I got meat on my bones,” Kenny said, ambivalent to the pain. “Your cooking’s ridiculous, man.” 

Cartman’s hand dropped to his  forearm .  He’d been  very tactile lately. He probably had another heat-rut combo coming on.  Gi ven his hermaphroditic nature  t hey  never followed any sort of biological schedule,  but Kenny learned to look for subtle tells. 

“No, it’s not,” Cartman said. “You just don’t know what real food is, growing up malnourished as you did. Anything over fifty calories and you think it’s a feast.” 

Skeeter’s Bar appeared through the windshield. “Oh look, we’re here,” Kenny said.

“Ugh. Do we _have_ to?” 

“Yes, babe.” They bumbled into the gravel lot. Kenny switched the ignition to accessory, rolled both their windows down. Automatic was a pretty sweet perk, he had to admit. “We’ll have a smoke first. Give you time to brace yourself.” 

“Fine.” Cartman slunk back to his seat, tossed his suede loafers up onto the dashboard. “It just creeps me out, is all.” 

Kenny  offered his cigarette case. “What does?” 

Cartman plucked a cigarette. His Zippo appeared in a gold flash followed by an orange flame. “Butters,” he said, exhaling. “All gravid and shit.”

“He’s harboring new _life_ , dude.” 

“Yeah, and it’s disgusting. We haven’t even taken into consideration the offspring’s half Jew.” 

Kenny  snorted.  “Don’t let Wendy catch you supporting eugenics.” 

Cartman rolled his eyes.  “Oh, I’m sure she’s too busy swapping Lamaze  techniques  with Butters.”

“Well, it’ll be nice to see Emily. She’s, like, three months old now.” 

“So you know exactly when she was conceived. Stan and Wendy’s _wedding_ night. So cheesy.” 

“At least they were married. Kyle and Butters are doing everything out of wedlock.”

“Fucking sluts. I’m gonna parade ‘em around town, get people to throw tomatoes.”

“Stop it,” Kenny reprimanded. “And get your shoes off my brand new truck.” 

Cartman planted his feet  on the floor. “Kyle’s gonna be awful, too. He’s so goddamn nervous about everything. Like  the baby’s gonna fall outta Butters  any second.  I might go get him some hot wings. I hear spicy stuff induces labor.” 

Kenny thumped the back of his head. “Be nice!”

Cartman leaned out the window. “Help! I’m being abused! My husband’s beating me!”

“Eric, I’m serious!” Kenny dragged him back into the cabin. “Knock it off.”

“Okay, I’ll be nice.” Cartman whirled an authoritative finger. “ _If_ you reward me for my good behavior.” 

“I shouldn’t have to _bribe_ you into acting like a normal person.” 

“I’m completely normal. It’s everybody else who’s crazy.”

Kenny tossed his cigarette  outside, crawled over the middle console, and inserted himself into Cartman’s lap. “I’ll give y ou a little incentive ahead of time, how about that?” 

Cartman’s nostrils flared. “That’ll work.”

Kenny popped  the lever under  his seat, pushed it all the way back. “Keep a lookout, baby.” 

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kenny slithered to his knees, undid Cartman’s pants, and  gave him a  expert-level  time-trial blowjob. Cartman tangled his fingers in  Kenny’s hair, holding his cigarette with the other hand. Cool as a cucumber. Nobody would ever think he was getting  brains gobbled out of his cock .

“That better?” Kenny asked once he finished.

“You performed adequately,” Cartman evaluated. He thumbed the cum off Kenny’s chin, hid it beneath Kenny’s earlobe like a wad of gum. “I’ll getcha back later in the bathroom.” 

“You don’t have to,” Kenny said, affectionately petting Cartman’s dick. He didn’t want to say goodbye yet. “I like being your sex slave.”

“Some slave owners were considerate. I won’t even whip you. I’ll let you learn how to read and everything.” Cartman swatted Kenny’s hand. “Quit it, or you’ll get me going again. Unless you wanna go home.”

“Nope.” Kenny zipped Cartman’s fly, climbed back in between his legs. “This means a lot to them. Besides, everybody else is here. We need to represent ourselves. A united front.”

Cartman ensured his cigarette singed Kenny’s hair on its way out the window. “It’s a baby shower, Kenny. Not the United Nations.”

“Might as well be our version of it. None of us see each other anymore unless somebody’s born or dead. It’s always a huge tribunal.”

“Which is exactly why I didn’t want to come at all.”

“But I’ll get to show off my sexy alpha-slash-omega husband. Let Butters _and_ Kyle know who’s boss.” 

Cartman fingered the back pockets of Kenny’s jeans,  territorial.  “I’m the boss.”

Kenny kissed him,  furnishing the distraction with copious amounts of tongue, and opened his door. 

“Aw, what?” Cartman chased after Kenny’s mouth as he rolled back behind the wheel. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

“Get out,” Kenny ordered. “And grab the present. I’ll get the food.”

“Bitch,” Cartman griped.

They walked past a cigarette spittoon trussed in pink and blue balloons on their way inside. The bar’s interior had been decorated in the same color scheme, to the same effect—try as one might, a pastel turd is still a pile of shit.  Nearly every available table had been arranged in a line piled with food on one end and presents on the other, leaving room for the circle of chairs in the middle of the floor. Butters sat at its apex seven months pregnant glowing with fatherly pride. Or perhaps the neon décor enhanced the sweat soaking his entire body. 

Cartman pulled Kenny behind a bank of gambling machines before they were spotted. “Here,” he set their present on top of the casserole dish in Kenny’s arms, “I’m gonna get a drink.”

“Seriously?” Kenny asked.

“It’s a _bar._ You can’t expect me to not drink at a bar.” 

“Fine, whatever. Get me a PBR.”

“That’s what I thought.” Cartman rose on his tiptoes and gave Kenny a chaste kiss. “You know I’m only here for you, right?” 

“I know. I appreciate your compliance with my request, and you how respect my needs even when they do not align with your own.” 

“Save it for the shrink’s office, sweetheart.”

Cartman whisked towards the bar and struck an instantaneous conversation with one of the leathery regulars. Kenny watched  with fond amusement,  till  he glanced  at him  and made a shooing gesture—Kenny shook his head and emerged from his hiding place. 

Wendy spotted him first. “Kenny! You made it!”

“I did,” he smiled. 

She rose from her perch beside Butters, having ranked right below Kyle in baby shower hierarchy. “And you brought a present! And food!”

“Yup.” Kenny scanned the circle as she unloaded his gift and food onto the table. “Where’s Kyle?”

“Oh—” She canted towards his ear conspiratorially. “Stan took him out back. He was, um, having a moment.” 

“He needs to chill the fuck out.” Kenny’s gaze landed on Butters, who was busy scarfing down a bowl of peanuts. “Is Butters okay?” 

“Butters is perfectly fine. He’s just hungry. You know.”

“Not really.”

“Well, one day soon, right?”

“Uh...”

Wendy elbowed him. “I’m kidding.” She opened Cartman’s casserole. “This looks great. What is it?”

“Casserole Cartman made,” Kenny said, thankful for the change of topic. “It’s his mom’s recipe.” 

“That’s surprisingly thoughtful of him.” Wendy stacked his present with the rest, then took his hand and lead him into the circle of gestation. “Hey, Butters. Kenny’s here.” 

Butters looked up from his peanuts, chubby face spread in a dazzling grin. “Kenny! Wow, it’s good to see you!”

“You too, buddy.” Kenny gave him an awkward hug, then sat down beside him. “How’s the kid?”

“Oh, feisty as ever.” Butters rubbed his distended belly. Peanut shells rained the floor. “She’s real active. I think she knows we’re throwing a party for her!” 

“She? You guys figured out it’s a girl?”

“Well, no, we want it to be a surprise. But I think so. Aw, jeeze—Wendy, could you get me some more water?”

“Of course!” Wendy jumped up and poured him a cup of water from the same pitcher Skeeter doled beer out with. “Here, honey.”

“Thanks.” Butters chugged the whole thing at once, smacked his lips.

Kenny edged back, slightly grossed out; Cartman had a point. “Man, it must be hard work having a baby.”

“It is,” Wendy said. “It’s worth it, though.”

“I just want her to come out already,” Butters said. He poked his stomach. “Did you hear me, little girl? Hurry it up in there. You’re killing my back.”

Kenny turned, beseeching his husband to save him. He didn’t have to wait for long—Cartman rounded the buffet table,  two whiskey glasses pinched between his fingers and a  can of PBR wedged in his elbow.

B utters waved. “Hey, Eric!” 

Cartman nodded.  “Looking rough, Leopold.” 

Wendy bristled. Butters just laughed. “I feel rough!”

Cartman passed  Kenny’s PBR, coupled  with a knowing smirk;  his hand fell heavy on Kenny’s shoulder. Kenny lifted an eyebrow at his dual whiskeys. “Doubling up, babe?” 

“One’s for Kyle,” Cartman said. “Where’s he? Puking in the bathroom?”

Butters giggled. “Stan had to go talk him down. He’s been all sorts of anxious.”

“Twenty thousand dollars says he’ll pass out in the delivery room.”

“Oh, hush. You know I don’t got your kinda money for a wager like that.”

Wendy jerked her thumb at the door leading to the beer garden. “They’re right outside, if you’d like to join them, Eric.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Cartman tapped Kenny’s shoulder. “C’mon, sugar.”

“You were right,” Kenny said once they were out of earshot. “Totally disgusting.”

“It’s abhorrent,” Cartman said. "I’m gonna go on house arrest way before I reach that point. Get a Mexican doula who doesn’t even speak English. Or maybe squat in the woods like they did in colonial times, me and you the only people around for miles.” He shouldered the door open before Kenny figured out if he was joking or not. “What’s up, cocksuckers?” 

Kyle lifted his head  from his hands , collapsed in a plastic lawn chair. Stan frowned behind him, cradling a cooing ball of blankets. “I don’t suck cock.” 

“Sure you do. Wendy’s strap-on counts.” Cartman kicked Kyle’s leg, held out one of the whiskeys. “Chin up, daddy-o. Drink this.”

“Ugh.” Kyle swilled half the glass. Thanks.” 

Kenny leaned against the beer garden’s fence. “Wendy told me you had a moment.”

“Shorthand for you’re a massive fucking pussy,” Cartman added.

“Dude!” Stan covered Emily’s ears. “Language, man.”

Cartman snickered. “Imagine if her first word was pussy—hilarious. Just give her to her mom. This is men’s talk.”

“I’ll be right back,” Stan sighed.

The door swung shut. Cartman settled beside Kenny and snapped his fingers. “Smoke.”

Kenny portioned a cigarette for himself and Cartman. Cartman lit his first, then did the old Anastasia maneuver.

“Do you mind?” Kyle sneered.

“You’ve got your inhaler,” Cartman said.

Kenny popped the  tab  on his PBR , knocked back a sorely needed gulp.  In all his years, he’d never encountered anything more annoying than Cartman and Kyle’s back and forth. “Lay off him, Eric. He’s going through a lot.” 

“He’s not going through anything,” Cartman said. “You’re having a kid, Kyle. That’s it.” 

“That’s _it_?” Kyle repeated. “That is most certainly not _it_.” 

“People’ve been pushing them out for thousands of years, and that was without modern medicine. It’s gonna be fine.”

“I’m not worried about _that_. I mean, I am—but it’s more being a _father_ than anything.” 

“You practically fathered me,” Kenny said. “You’ll be a good dad.”

Kyle groaned.  “ I did not wipe your ass, Kenny. I did not bathe you.” 

“Yeah, that was me,” Cartman said.

Kenny wrapped his arm around Cartman’s hips as if physical containment could hold back his tongue, pressed the cold PBR against his side  as if it could cool him down . Cartman scowled, relax ing  nonetheless. 

Kyle slumped low in his chair. “It’s just…crazy. I’m going to be totally responsible for how this kid turns out. One wrong move and he’ll grow up and become an addict, or something.” He glanced at Kenny. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Kenny said.

Cartman sucked a pull of whiskey. “Listen. You’re too focused on all the shitty stuff. What about the good things? Like—you’re repopulating the world with Jews, for one.  Take that, Hitler.” 

Kyle didn’t have the capacity to rise to the antisemitic bait. “I guess. My mom’s already planning the bar mitzvah.”

“Where is that big fat bitch, anyway?” Cartman asked. 

“She went to get Butters tuna,” Kyle said. “He’s been craving it.”

Kenny’s nose scrunched. “Gross.”

“I know. I don’t even want to kiss him. He’d cry if I didn’t, though.”

“How sweet,” Cartman said. “You’re a real stand up gentleman, suffering fish breath.”

Stan returned with a beer of his own. He made a beeline for his best friend, eyes narrowed at Cartman. “You better not be acting like a jerk.”

“It’s been pretty tame, honestly,” Kyle said.

Kenny pinched Cartman’s muffin top. “I got him on a leash.”

Cartman pushed Kenny’s arm off, widened his shoulders. “Whatever.”

“Uh-huh,” Stan said. His gaze softened. “You guys seem to be doing pretty well for yourselves.”

“We got lobotomized,” Cartman said. “Our psychologist’s a real nut.”

“We’ve learned how to tolerate each other,” Kenny extrapolated.

“Pretty tall order,” Kyle said. “Considering, well.”

Cartman flicked his cigarette in the direction of Kyle’s shoes. “Considering what?”

“Considering Kenny’s an ex-drug addict,” Stan provided. “And you’re the biggest asshole I’ve ever met in my life.”

“Have you met your _wife_?” Cartman asked. 

Stan sipped his beer. “Point taken.”

Conversation unfurled easy as  it always did when the four of them got together.  They all had another round of drinks. Kenny and Cartman smoked a few more cigarettes. Kyle cried. Stan calmed him down with a story from their youth,  which  Cartman  countered with his own embellished take. Kenny didn’t say much,  just listened.  The decades seemed to rewind. 

Eventually  W endy corralled them back inside for presents and food. Butters  adored the giant Hello Kitty plush Kenny picked out,  but l oved Cartman’s casserole even more. The sight of Kyle spoonfeeding him was the nastiest thing Kenny saw that evening—noticing his discomfort, Cartman shepherded him into the bathroom, knelt on the piss-stained tile, and sucked him off. 

“We gottta go home right now,” Cartman panted.

Kenny paused in pulling his jeans up. “Why?”

“Because—” Cartman swallowed the cum clinging to the back of his throat. “Butt floodgate’s ‘bout to open in two seconds.” 

“What? You’re in _heat—_ now?” 

“It’s Butters and Kyle, man. My dick wants to fight for dominance.”

“Aw, shit. Okay. Well, let’s go tell ‘em bye, and—”

“We can’t do that. They’ll know. I don’t want ‘em to know.”

“Alright. I’ll smuggle you out, baby. Let’s go, though, if we’re gonna go. I’m not gonna wait out your whole knot in this fucking bathroom.”

Cartman staggered to his feet, half-drunk.  “ Y’gotta lemme hide under your coat.” He lifted the hem of Kenny’s jacket and ducked underneath. “Like this. Nobody’ll see a thing.” 

“Sure, if it makes you feel better,” Kenny chuckled.

Cartman babbled demands the whole drive home. Kenny stroked his shoulders, providing thoughtless affirmations to prevent accusations of neglect. The stench of his slick eviscerated the new car smell. Now the truck was officially broken in, claimed and stained to Cartman’s liking; now everybody would know who Kenny belonged to. Cartman belonged to Kenny as well, but that was a secret only Kenny was privy to, evidenced in the way Cartman allowed himself to break apart the closer they neared home.

In the year and a half since Cartman’s first hormonal hurricane they’d devised a storm safety plan—and a bunker. Kenny guided a willing Cartman into the spare room they transformed into a sex dungeon, got him all emotionally prepared with sweet talk and vanilla foreplay, after which Cartman took the reigns. Sometimes he let the inauguration ceremony drag out if he felt especially corny. Today was one of those days. He preened and sighed under Kenny’s hands, rambled on and on about how good Kenny was to him. His brain disintegrated to goo, distilled all his base instincts, and they were off to the races.

Kenny gladly submitted. Submission came in many forms and different flavors—blood, spit, and cum, or sugar, honey, and cum. Nostalgic and sentimental, Cartman wanted a taste of the latter. They fucked slow and syrupy. By the time it was all said and done they were drenched in early evening molasses. Kenny gave Cartman water, a protein bar, and rocked him to sleep, then went up to the studio to decompress.

He stopped painting figures months ago. The subject matter bored him now that all his interpersonal demons were at rest. He’d taken Anastasia’s advice and went completely abstract. He’d never been a wordsmith like Cartman; he didn’t think in metaphors and analogies. His thoughts spun out unmoored and undefined, translated into kinetic shape and color. It was best work to date. The critics went wild. And the money kept pouring in. But it was never about the money. It was about the paint.

Kenny stretched canvas across the floor, fastened his overalls atop his naked body, pulled his hair into a messy knot, and got down to business.

He poured a sea of yellow crested by orange waves. The paint talked to him, told him he was happy, and he was. He shored the waves with blocks of white and black—dualities, he’d tell the critics. It’s all about dualities. He cut incisions into the blocks, scrumbled the edges. The dualities bled into the ocean and became one big body, a million Rothko paintings in one. Plagiarism wouldn’t do, so he added a few twists of his own, carved symbols that looked like letters but were not. Speech muffled by the hood of a parka, their meaning a mystery, their presence a fact. He’d never tell anybody what he was saying. If you know, you know. Only the people that mattered knew.

The sound system cut out, stilling his gloved hand.

“You glad about something?”

Kenny looked up. His husband stood in the doorway wearing a pair of silk pajama pants, backlit by the gridded floor-to-ceiling windows. An old band t-shirt of Kenny’s—threadbare thanks to its rightful borrower—squeezed his heavyset frame.

“Uh, kind of,” Kenny said. The studio, and his head, hummed with residual bass lines. He shucked his gloves off and tucked them into the front pocket of his overalls. He gave a fuck, nowadays.

Cartman toed between strewn materials and peered at the work in progress. Mittens trotted around his ankles, hopped on top of a stack of finished paintings, and curled in for a nap; she kept her distance during Cartman’s heats. “Looks derivative,” he noted. “You’ve been doing abstract for awhile. Make it interesting, for God’s sake.”

“I’m trying,” Kenny said.

“Yeah, well, try harder.” Cartman handed Kenny a cup of gourmet coffee, sipped his own. “Color field’s been done to death. I like that chicken scratch. What’s it for?”

“I dunno. Something new I’ve been testing out.”

“Keep it. It suits you.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah. You communicate best when nobody knows what the hell you’re saying.”

“I thought the same thing.” Kenny smeared his feet on a naked spot of canvas before transitioning to the cold floorboards; the windows facing the dark night undermined by the studio lights’ reflections. “People like having something to guess about. They don’t know there’s nothing to guess.”

“Good. The institution deserves to chase its own tail. We got that show coming up at the end of the year. Finish this on time and put it in.”

Kenny took a drink of coffee to burn the frustration out of his chest. “Don’t mention it. I don’t want to think about it.”

“It’s the _MoMA_ , Kenny,” Cartman emphasized. “The Museum of Modern fucking Art. This is your big break. We’re going. I don’t wanna hear any if, ands, or buts.”

“But I hate New York,” Kenny whined. “All the people there—it’s terrible. I don’t wanna rub elbows with a bunch of schmucks.”

Cartman punched his shoulder. “Relax. I’ll be there to protect you from the liberals.” He fiddled with the clasp of Kenny’s overalls. “You look like some little Appalachian boy. Like you’re in a Hooverville.”

Kenny held his hand. “My junk needs to air out. You screwed me raw, dude.”

“Likewise,” Cartman said. “I still put on clothes, you ingrate.”

“That silk probably does wonders for your knot, huh?”

“Oh, shut up. Go wash your feet—sit down, have a smoke break.”

Kenny scrubbed his arms, feet, and hands at the dump sink then joined Cartman on the futon, the top half of his overalls folded down so he wouldn’t get paint everywhere. They laid on their stomachs and watched their reflections, Cartman drawing patterns on Kenny’s back.

“I want to talk to you about something,” Cartman said after awhile.

Kenny dropped his cigarette into the empty coffee cup on the floor. “Okay. What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking lately.”

“That’s not a good sign. What about?”

“Stuff. And things.”

Kenny scooted closer, kissed Cartman’s cheek. Cartman looked away from the window. “Anything specific?”

“Very specific.” Cartman pulled Kenny’s hair-tie loose, combed his hair down his shoulder blades. “About us. And, uh—the future, and everything.”

Kenny grinned. “What, you wanna get divorced for real?”

“No,” Cartman said, with such intensity Kenny’s smile fell.

“Okay,” Kenny said. “No jokes, I got it.”

“This isn’t something to make light of.”

“It’d help if I knew what you’re referring to.”

Cartman sucked the rest of his cigarette, tossed it with Kenny’s. “I’ve been thinking,” he said again. “Especially after today.”

Kenny threw an arm and a leg over Cartman’s back. It helped if he didn’t have anywhere to run away from his feelings. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Cartman turned on his side, rearranged Kenny so he was flush with his chest. “I’ve been thinking that we were the first out of everybody to get married, but we’re gonna be the last to have kids. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

Kenny swallowed. “Guess not.”

“We got Stan and Wendy’s spawn running around, and now Butters and Kyle’s here pretty soon. We gotta have one of our own so the world doesn’t end. I mean, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ll have to go and get a whole bunch of tests done and shit to make sure it’s _viable_. And obviously we’ll wait till after the MoMA, and—”

“Baby,” Kenny murmured. Cartman stilled. “You wanna have a kid?”

“I think I want to,” Cartman whispered. “Do you?”

Kenny kissed him. “I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you got anything out of this fic, i hope it is the fact that kenny and carmtan's safeword is rob schneider. power bottom cartman + service top kenny is all i will accept anymore.
> 
> might fuck around and write a sequel/epilogue if there's interest
> 
> edit 1/24/2020 -- sequel in the works, i myself had interest, lol. it has ballooned into a moderately long multi-chapter fic, though, so. it is coming. don't know how long it'll take but keep your eyes peeled.
> 
> edit 5/11/2020 -- doubt anyone is reading these after-the-fact updates; i'm just adding them to hold myself accountable. made a vow not to post anything until the first draft of the sequel is done. i'm about halfway finished now.
> 
> edit 5/31/2020 -- [sequel is live!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24482413/chapters/59092585)


End file.
